Greenwich
by crew1124
Summary: Spencer, a resident of wealthy upperclass Weston, MA, knows no bounds. Quick witted and sharp tounged, sporting a sexual repetoire which would cause even the most promiscuous 20 year old to blush, she meets her match in, Greenwich resident, Ashley Davies.
1. Cianara, Bitch

"Listen, Greta, it's not you…It's me,"

It was almost too easy.

"Things have been really hard at home lately, what with Mom brining in her millions—oh, sorry, billions—" she laughed almost sheepishly at her silly mistake.

Just like clockwork.

"Baby," she whispered, a strategically placed hand grazing the other girls nerve stricken knee.

She really should have been expecting it.

"I think we should break up."

Cianara, bitch.

Spencer squinted in annoyance as she pushed her way through the local Starbucks and into the Massachusetts sunshine, wondering, as she slid her expensive black Ralph Lauren sunglasses from the top of her head to the bridge of her nose, why it had to be so goddamn bright out. Not to mention Greta's sobbing had drawn attention to them, which was fine except for the fact that Spencer only drew attention to herself on her own terms.

Still, Greta had been terribly attractive, incredibly wholesome, she did do volunteer work five of seven days a week, the other two spent playing croquet with her wealthy grand parents, who she loved and adored obscenely. The thought of it all made Spencer nauseous as she mentally added another notch to her bedpost, noting the lack of space and the apparent need for a new one.

_Fuck, I'm good_, she mused as she stepped into the driver's side of her black Aston Martin DB7, quickly punching in her best friend and coveted wing woman's number before revving up her baby for another spin.

"How'd it go?" A curious voice inquired, half amused and half wary of her best friends far beyond promiscuous relationship patterns.

"How does it always go?" Spencer laughed, incredibly self-satisfied, as pulled the car into reverse.

"You're the best."

"Kate, you say it like it's a bad thing. It's really not." Spencer reminded her. This argument was old as time and Spencer always won.

"I just don't want you to end up rich and alone with only your memory of short lived, and can I say overtly sexual, conquests to pass the time."

"I won't!" Spencer promised sincerely, making a note to, out of love, get her friend laid fast, "I mean," She paused, "There'll _always_ be a one night stand!"

"Spencer" Katie groaned, smiling through her best friends antics.

"What? The price of a hooker is decreasing at an increasing rate—by the time I'm sixty I'll probably be able to afford an orgy for fewer than eighty dollars. That's a deal, Kate, I don't care where you're from—_that_ is getting the bang for your buck, no pun intended of course."

"I'm hanging up now."

"And I'm pulling into your driveway, GET OUT HERE, BITCH!" Spencer yelled playfully hopping out of her car and into Katie's cobblestone Weston mansion.

"You're so charming," Katie teased meeting her at the large wooden front door, "It's no wonder you've slept with so thirty-five girls—"

"Thirty-six _women_," Spencer chimed in, "And at the tender age of twenty, I don't intend on backig down."

"Jesus, we need to get you tested…"

"For what?" Spencer inquired.

"_Everything,_

"Cake."

"Seriously? You know this."

"Well, I couldn't decide whether to just get the Boston Crème with gummy bears, which, by the way, is absolutely revolting, but then it'd have to be a _huge_ cake, or like several, which is fine, whatever, I mean, we can do several, several's good, several's great—"

"Kate…"

"Sorry," She sighed sweeping a hand through her straight brown locks. She really was very pretty. Standing tall enough at 5'6 and weighing in at 130 pounds, Kate was the perfect complement to Spencer, the most appropriate ying to her yang. They had grown up together; attended the same day school then private school, only parting ways for college though, not to anyone's surprise, they stayed in touch better than anyone else could: emails, and IMs, phone calls and surprise flights. Spencer would never confess, but she always did have a soft spot for brunettes.

"Or, we could just do hoardes of fried ice cream." Katie finished, bracing herself for the squeal that would be Spencer's delight.

It came.

"Ahh, I can't decide. We'll do both?" She replied, scanning over the guest list of three hundred for the thousandth time. The upcoming weekend was her birthday and this year she was celebrating the big 2-0 with a bash. Big and flashy parties in her honor usually weren't her style, but she had had a good year and figured she might as well reward herself. After all, she had managed to escape her third year at Wellesley with a not only perfect G.P.A in tow, but also the entire school's GLBT community, not to mention two thirds of the straight population. All accomplished with a bottle of Smirnoff in hand and her good looks in tact. She never faltered. She was always in control. How could she not pat herself on the back for it? After all, it wasn't easy.

_Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. _"Fuck…I mean, flip?" Spencer tried, grabbing her purse and sliding out of her chair—Kate hated it when she cursed. "I have to go. Lunch with mother!" She squealed in faux glee. "I'll call you later though?"

"Not if I don't see you first." That was their thing. They always knew if they'd find the other, probably before the other could find them—it was comforting.

"Oh, hey, Spence, don't forget to take your medicine, okay?" Kate chided as Spencer turned to leave.

"Already did," Spencer said as she waltzed out of Gregory's and towards her car. Just as she was about to pull out of the parking lot, her phone vibrated—It was Kate."

"I guess you called me first?"

"Shut up," She laughed, "So, my cousin's coming down for weekend, is it fine if I put her on the list?"

"Yeah, you don't even have to ask, K." She backtracked, "Two questions though—"

"Yes and Yes."

"Perfect."

"Alright, give me a call later—"

"Wait, what's mystery girls name?"

Kate laughed, answering her before hanging up, "Ashley."


	2. Two Queens In The Same Deck

Chapter 2: Two Queens In The Same Deck

"Mother."

"Sweetheart," Paula drawled saucily, wrapping her youngest daughter in a cursory hug before placing two chaste kisses on both her perfectly complexioned cheeks, "I thought we'd have lunch in the courtyard today. Only, of course, if you don't mind?" she added sweetly, resuming her seat as she motioned for their waiter to approach.

"It doesn't matter though does it?" Spencer countered slyly, setting her Blackberry to silent.

"Hmm…" her mother hummed, nodding appreciatively as she crossed her legs and leaned back in the wrought iron garden chair, "Smart girl."

"I am my mother's daughter," Spencer parried, a sickingly sweet smile trapezed across her face.

This was their every Wednesday afternoon—a mother daughter brunch at the Club—the only way to get the two alone in a room together. Her father attributed their acute disdain towards one another as a by product of their general similarities: He claimed, "You're two queens of spades from the same deck, and any card player knows that just won't do." But they both knew the truth—It was all a game, a battle for power, for control. They were gladiators with no guns, spears, or sickles. No, they contended with the most advanced weapon available, the one most devastating when properly employed: words.

"So, honey, have you found a nice boyfriend yet?"

Then there was that.

Spencer smiled inwardly, impressed with her mothers parry, "No, mother," she sighed, pushing a piece of steak past her lips, "I told you. I'm a big homo. You'd think after Brooke that would have sunk in," she finished, her lips formed into the perfect condescending pout.

"Ah, yes," Paula began, sawing her steak more viciously now, "The governors daughter you fuck—"

"Made love to, mother. We made love," Spencer reprimanded brazenly.

"Fine. The governors daughter you 'made love to' in your father and mines bed," Paula smiled, "How could I forget?"

"I hope having your accounts frozen and your car towed weren't too inconvenient," Paula frowned, "I wouldn't want to put you in a rough spot."

Spencer grimaced inwardly, only allowing her smile to falter a bit. It had been inconvenient—terribly inconvenient. It's what spawned the idea for her to create a private fund, one not controlled by her devil of a mother.

_Bitch_, Spencer thought, checking the time.

"Well, dear mother," Spencer began, the sarcastic decadence she only doted on Paula dripping off of every syllable, "I should be going. Women to fu—make love to," She smiled, "hearts to break." She finished, tapping at the corners of her mouth with her oleander white napkin before standing up.

"You're not gay, Spencer," Paula stated coolly, matter-of-factly, as if telling a toddler the sky was blue, "You're just confused."

"I don't know, Mom," Spencer began wickedly, "I'm not sure the girl I went down on last night would necessarily agree. But, then again, what would your secretary know?" She shrugged.

Only Spencer could have possibly noticed the tightness of Paula's lips at that moment, the tension that creeped into her brow with her daughter's word.

"Lunch was pleasant as always," Spencer chirped, kissing her mother twice on both cheeks before walking away, "See you next Wednesday!"

_Spencer, one, Paula zero_, Spencer thought as she sauntered away through the courtyard and towards her car, _Stupid bitch_.

She also made a mental reminder to send her mother's secretary a fruit basket for getting the young woman sacked.

After all, she _was_ a good lay.

"I've got hoes, sing it with me Kate," Spencer chimed into her phone, "In different a-rea codes"

"You're an asshole."

"I'm a princess. What's up?" Spencer asked, shifting into the right lane on her way home.

"Date tonight?"

"_Dates_" Spencer quipped, honking at some asshole who wasn't peeling out the second the light turned green.

Kate sighed in mock disapproval, the truth was, she was used to it. Spencer couldn't be tamed. She was a wild horse, to steal a line from Will Farrell, dipping her wick into anything that moved—and regardless, she loved her for it.

"Well, could you _spare_ to meet me at Harvey's tonight?" Katie grinned into her phone, "It's the grand opening and I thought I might bring Ashley along to enjoy it."

"Ah, yes, you're hot and single mystery cousin." Spencer grinned playfully.

"Play nice, Spence!" Katie half warned-half pleaded, she knew how Spencer could get sometimes.

"Besides," she continued, "I don't really think she's your type…"

"Please," Spencer spat incredulously, "_hot_ is my type."

"And don't worry," She continued, "I'll play nice. She is your family, after all."

It was true. Katie was Spencer's best friend in the world; sometimes she even thought she was her lifeline. Despite her insatiable thirst for sex and games, she was more than willing, in fact, almost anxious, to show her cousin a good time. Besides, it's not like a little fun would hurt, right?

"Thank you. I have to go though, I'm on my way to the airport—we'll meet you around…ten?" Katie offered, "Or is that not enough time for you and your playmates?"

Spencer laughed, what else could she do?

"That's more than enough time," She said, "Are you forgetting who you're talking to?"

_Party like a rock, Party like a rock star, Party like a rock, Party like a rock star._

Harvey's looked spectacular. The two-tiered nightclub was ablaze with strobe and black lights, littered with hot and gyrating bodies. It smelled of Cuban tobacco and expensive alcohol, wreaked of sex and old money—Spencer loved it.

"VIP—very classy, K!" Spencer noted, sliding onto the plush leather couch with her friend.

She was already buzzed, something three dates and two quickies in less than four hours could do to a girl.

"Did they put out?" Kate asked, handing Spencer her vodka cranberry, stirred twice with exactly four cubes of ice made from fresh Fiji spring water.

"Kate, _look_ at me." Spencer began seriously, "How could they _not_ put out?"

"Where's that mystery cousin of yours, anyway?" She finished, taking a slow sip of her signature drink.

"Bar, I think—Why are you so anxious to meet her?" Kate asked suspiciously, eyeing a very good looking Don Juan from across the room.

"I like making new friends?" Spencer tried, heading to the bar, "I'll be back!" she shouted.

"The usual Donny,"

Spencer was no stranger to the bar scene and Donny worked all the best clubs. It was always a sort of comfort to know he'd be mixing her drinks.

"Got it, Spencer,"

"So, I'm going to assume, Donald, that you've been keeping your eye out for me?" Spencer grinned, nursing her second drink of the night.

"But of course," he winked, leaning forward so only she could hear, "90 degrees to your left, black halter, curly brunette, sexy pout—hottest piece to come by these parts tonight."

"_Stunning_…" Spencer whispered, drinking in the subject of the night.

_She is gorgeous_

"Just another notch?" Donny asked, watching Spencer's eyes wander on the brunette just a little longer than the others. The girl was an animal and her repertoire surpassed the impressive—he wondered if she'd ever break.

"_Always another notch_," Spencer grinned, snapped out of her daze, "Excuse me."

_I'm getting fucked tonight._


	3. But I'm Not

Chapter Three: But I'm Not

Ashley was bored. Unforgivably, indescribably, and quite annoyingly bored, a fact she found intriguing given she had come up to spend the weekend with her cousin in Massachusetts for this very same reason. Truth be told, she was bored with a lot of things lately. Life had lost its youthful luster and she was learning very quickly that money was nothing more than dirty coins and stamped bits of old paper. Still, there was something to be said for what a credit card could do as she leaned across the bar counter, tapping her empty glass reproachfully.

"Fuck, I need to get drunk…" She muttered, downing her just filled Cream of Jack in one go.

"The first words of a budding alcoholic?"

It seemed Ashley's self-deprecation had numbed her to the physics of the outside world, thus she had not seen an admittedly gorgeous blonde vixen approach her, the very same one sitting next to her right now.

"And you are…?"

"Currently? Enjoying watching you massacre your liver," She began playfully, "In the next five minutes however, I have every intention of getting to know you better on the dance floor."

"Really?" Ashley laughed, caught off guard yet pleasantly impressed with her strangers circuitous and quite indecent proposal, "And what makes you think you're my type? Or that I'm interested in _your_ type at all?"

Spencer, who had neglected to formally introduce herself to, unbeknownst to her, Kate's cousin, leaned forward slowly, only stopping when her lips felt out the tiny hairs on the shell of the girls waiting ear, "You're interested," she whispered, allowing her bottom lip to graze Ashley's lobe before huskily continuing, "You're very interested," She finished, lacing their fingers before pulling away, enormously satisfied with the expression of wanton desire spread across the other girls face.

Ashley opened her eyes, unaware she had closed them and studied Spencer slowly, taking note of the brazenness of her features, the self-assuredness of her smile, and the blue fire in her eyes, like a topaz held up against the sun that burned, burned, burned. Rubbing her thumb slowly against the other girls, tracing the lines she felt there, Ashley leaned forward, much in the same way Spencer had, a wicked smile playing on her face, "Hmm…" She hummed slowly, seductively, "But I'm not."

And like that, she was gone, sliding an hundred dollar bill across the bar to where Donny looked on in horrified amazement, but not before placing a chaste kiss to Spencer's almost stunned to the point of lifelessness forehead, "By the way, it's nice to meet you, Spencer," She began, extending her hand in the most polite way she knew how, "I'm Ashley."

Spencer could only look on, shifting her not yet smoldering, but devastatingly crushed gaze from Ashley's playful though not entirely vindictive smirk, to the hand she held out, which, Spencer assumed, Ashley intended for her to shake.

She didn't.

The last thing Spencer saw as Donny, nervously yet knowingly, arranged five shot glasses of the most expensive and fastest acting rum, was Ashley sauntering off to an equally stunned and worried looking Kate.

_**asterickasterickasterickasterickasterick**_

"So, you met Ashley…" Kate began cautiously, bracing herself for whatever was to come. She hadn't seen Spencer in two days now despite a series of incessant phone and house calls, finally reaching her that Saturday morning, praying to god she wasn't out somewhere lying in a ditch, drinking herself into caffeine oblivion in a local Starbucks. The truth was, Kate could almost see this coming, like word of an impending freight train crash that seemed to absurd to be at all valid. She and Ashley were too alike, too similar in all the wrong ways. Still, she didn't know it would happen like this, in the worst fucking way possible—for Spencer, that is.

"Stop calling me."

"Spencer…" Kate whined, emotionally and physically drained, "Ashley…" she began, searching for the words to describe her quick witted, but still generally kind hearted cousin, "She's just—"

Spencer hung up, too tired and too fucking pissed to deal with her best friend right now, instead wrestling with a half empty bottle pills, finally prying the goddamn thing open.

"Kate…" She warned bitterly, answering her blaring phone again, _Stop calling me—"_

"_Never_ hang up on me like that again,"

Spencer sighed slowly, combing a hand through her hair as she pushed down whatever it was she was feeling, scolding herself for feeling at all.

"I'm sorry," She said, truly sincere. As much as she loathed the idea of conversing with her best friend at the moment, she still had to respect the code, the unwritten, as old as time, at least for those two, code—the one that stated you _never_ hang up on the other, no matter what the circumstances.

"About Ashley—"

Spencer truly didn't want to hear it. Twelve shots, three bottles of vodka, and four fucks later she still couldn't shake off the memory, dull out the cool rising sensation in her veins that made her heart beat faster, caused her palms to sweat, wreaked havoc on her mind and body in a way that was numbing but still infuriated her to no end.

"Please," Spencer sighed, "just don't." She couldn't handle any more, at least not right then, "I'll see you tonight."

Kate sighed as well, knowing there wasn't much she could do, "Yeah, tonight,"

"Bye—"

"Hey, Spence?"

"Yeah?" The quality of her voice was almost lifeless.

"Happy Birthday."

_**Asterickasterickasterickasterick.**_

It was a cool seventy-eight degrees in Weston as Spencer climbed out of her silver Range Rover, pushing her way through to the local Starbucks for a much needed Chai. She was bundled, an oversized Wellesley sweatshirt and matching shorts almost rendering her inconspicuous as she paid for her drink and settled into an unfrequented corner of the tiny establishment—she did not want to be noticed today.

_What did I say…_ Spencer thought to herself, absent-mindedly cradling her hot drink.

_You know what? Fuck that bitch. This is a game, this is just a game, and you're the best there is. Nobody can play better than you can._

"Nobody…" Spencer muttered, taking a longer, more confident sip now.

"You know, I didn't take you to be the crazy type, but I suppose I shouldn't assume too much from someone who picks up girls at the bar. Not very classy, Ms. Carlin,"

_Oh, god, no_ Spencer thought, highly perturbed to see her first and only fallen conquest pulling a chair up to the table she assumed she was

to be occupying alone.

'Nor is inviting yourself to a clearly private party, Ms…"

"Davies," Ashley finished for her, pulling her croissant a part in two, offering Spencer a piece, "Well, I'm sorry." She began, her voice suggesting some semblance of regret, "I wasn't aware pity parties required special invitations. Where _are_ my manners?" she finished, smiling quite genuinely at Spencer who almost smiled back. After all, she was impressed. It seemed Ms. Davies could keep up.

Still, there was no forgetting two nights before, and as the memory flooded back, so did the tension which seemed to had, if only for a moment, almost dissipated.

"About last night," Ashley began, her voice gentle now, a one-eighty from where it had been just a moment before, "I'm not usually that bitchy. I guess between the alcohol and your forwardness, I kind of gave you the short end of the stick."

Ashley's honesty was off putting and the sincerity of her confession made Spencer incredibly uncomfortable. This wasn't what she was accustomed to, using words to heal, not hurt. She also didn't like what she felt sitting there, the strange kind of emotion that washed over, made it easier to breathe—it was choking her.

It was due to this that next few words came tumbling out of Spencer's mouth, not so much out of vindictiveness but more for the sake of necessity, a desperate quest for normalcy, "My apologies, as well. It seems the three drinks I had before approaching you gave me false pretenses of your beauty," She began, looking Ashley up and down, "You're really not that attractive."

It seemed Ashley wasn't as surprised by Spencer's words as Spencer was, the smile she had sported only moments before faltering just a bit.

"I'll leave you to your pity party then" She said coolly, slinging her purse over her shoulder as she packed up her trash, "Who am I to come between a woman and her struggle with sexual impotence?"

Again, Spencer was impressed—Ashley really could keep up.

"Hey!" Spencer called, raising her voice only slightly, still quite aware of her surroundings, "Where are you from anyways?"

Ashley didn't bother turning around as she headed for the door, "Greenwich."

Spencer shook her head incredulously, a small smile playing across her lips, "She _would_ be from Greenwich."

THANK YOU SO MUCH for all the positive feedback--it really does mean a lot to me. as i said before, please, **keep it coming.** i challenge people to comment more the good and the bad, as always.


	4. I Guess I'm Interested

Chapter Four: I Guess I'm Interested

"I…" Spencer began, "Am very…_very drunk_." She stated, nodding matter-of-factly at Kate, the only entity between her and the ground as the two slowly made their way through the club parking lot.

It wasn't even midnight and Spencer was shit-faced, a fact that did not go unnoticed by her best friend as she loaded her into the passenger seat of her car. After dancing on the bar, calling one of the strippers a slut, admitting to a guy that had been, quite innocently, hitting on her that his girlfriend had spectacular tits, and pouring a tumbler of vodka down a girls shirt before asking her to take it off, Kate decided Spencer had pretty much reached her threshold for fun and was taking her home.

"Kate…" Spencer said slowly, her face somehow buried in the other girls chest as the latter tried to wrestle her into the car, "You have a _really_ nice rack."

"_What_ is your obsession with breasts?" Kate asked incredulously, pulling the girls seatbelt across her lap and buckling her in.

"They're nice," Spencer answered honestly, considering her question, "I mean, just getting like…the perfect hand-sized breast—like bite sized, but for your hand, it feels good." She admitted.

Kate could only shake her head in mock amazement—After all, having known Spencer for ten years nothing could really surprise her, "You're so gay. How did I not notice until the seventh grade."

"Aiden," Spencer countered seriously, "Aiden Dennison. But I don't really consider him as counting, " She continued, "He was pretty much a girl anyways."

Aiden had been Spencer's first boyfriend. They'd gone to the same day school and bonded over debating which girls would put out first. Eventually, after watching enough episodes of 'Saved By the Bell', he realized that this was not conventional relationship behavior and broke up with her. She'd slept with everyone of his girlfriends ever since, citing it as "poetic revenge".

"I hear he's living in Cancun now."

"Oh, yeah?" Spencer added, partially interested.

"Uh huh," Kate said, propping her feet on the dashboard, "Banging unsuspecting cabana boys which is, you know, kinda hot, I guess." She finished, considering the situation.

Spencer furrowed a brow, considering it as well, and they were both silent for a few seconds.

"No, no it's not." Spencer confirmed, shaking her head disapprovingly.

"Well, you broke his spirit," Kate countered. She had really felt bad for him.

"He shouldn't have dumped me." Spencer said, justifying the situation.

"Jesus, where the fuck is Ashley?" Kate groaned, instantly regretting the change in subject. Still, the girls couldn't leave without her.

"Do _not_ say her name in my car," Spencer warned, suddenly serious and a little bit dizzy.

"I'll be sure remember that when we're in your car,"

"Bullshit" Spencer gasped, swiveling her head around in disbelief.

"Please," Kate begged, watching curiously as Spencer crawled into the backseat, inspecting cushions and drink trays, "She's leaving tomorrow. Can you just try to get along with her. I know it's asking a lot," And she really did, "But she's my cousin and she's really not the frigid bitch you think she is—"

"I could give a shit whether or not she's fucking Ms. Sunshine or Shannon Dougherty," Spencer began, closing her eyes as the world began spinning, "She is _not_ riding in my car."

"My car."

"That," Spencer said as she leaned over the center console, sliding a finger across the dashboard to check for dirt, "Is still up for debate." Dirt was her bitch and it never saw the interior of her car.

It was a few moments later, when Spencer was awkwardly combing under the backseats for the strap-on she knew she kept there, if this was in fact her car, when Ashley approached, talking hurriedly with Kate who then rushed off. It seemed three girls had gotten themselves into an altercation concerning who it was exactly that popped the birthday girl's cherry.

"Aha!" Spencer squealed, producing from the depths of Kate's car, a neon pink condom.

Her small victory, or what seemed to be a small victory was, however, cut short, by the incredibly sober brunette climbing into the driver's seat of the yet to be determined's car.

"You don't use those." Ashley grinned, matter-of-factly, fumbling with the straps of her heels before propping her feet against the dashboard.

Spencer groaned disdainfully, pulling herself up and out of the depths of the backseat if only to shoot her bitchiest glare at the witch muddying her dashboard with her diseased toes.

"Get out of my car." She sneered, crossing her arms then legs, before continuing coolly, "I don't want you breathing my air."

Ashley turned around slowly, studying the girl incredulously before asking, "Are you always such a bitch?"

"Oh, please!" Spencer countered, feeling the eight shots she'd consumed only hours before coursing through her veins--it felt good, "We are the same person," She sneered, her voice lowering, becoming more serious and matter-of-factly, "You are just like me. Do not pretend you're any better."

Those were probably the most honest words to tumble out of Spencer Carlin's wasted mouth in seven years, and this fact was not wasted on her. Slowly, but surely, she began to feel that strange emotion creeping up on her, the same one she had experienced earlier only hours before in the coffee shop corner. She could sense something slipping, an entity undoing itself, as she tried to shake it off, tried to let it go.

"No, I'm not." Ashley said simply, almost sadly.

"Oh, _bullshit_," Spencer scoffed, leaning back into her chair, burning holes into Ashley's eyes with her own, "Please, enlighten me on those points in which we differ."

Ashley rarely got mad, a characteristic of her's she praised. But there was something about Spencer—She was a catalyst for her anger. Just then the tension rose, like a fog in the burrows of Seattle—You could cut it with a knife.

"You're addicted to sex," Ashley began, meeting Spencer's glare with her intense own, "You're addicted to those ten minutes, that one hour, when that girl writhing underneath you can't breathe. When she can't see or feel anything but what you're feeding her, the lust you're igniting in her veins. Cause that's what it's about—Control. You, Spencer Carlin, are _junkie_ for manipulation. God, you struggle to attain it in everything you do and suck it out of everyone you meet. You're like a leech—draining other's free will to feed your own. You're fucking insatiable. You want to know the _real_ difference between me and you, the point on which we differ?" Ashley almost whispered, leaning farther forward now, her voice a replica of cold but genuine sincerity, "I can _feel_. I can lie in bed after fucking someone and not think my heart's constricting, not believe it's caving in on itself and I'm on the verge of death. I don't pop pills every time I feel my control induced sanity slipping—"

"_Fuck you_," Spencer sneered, her voice low and menacing, dripping with warning, as she tangled her right hand in Ashley's hair, violently, no, ferociously, pulling her closer, till there was an only a millimeter between their quivering lips--She had never meant those words so much in her adult life.

"If I'm _such_ a monster," she challenged, her blood searing trails in burning veins, "And if you know me so _fucking_ well," she continued, pressing the hand in Ashley's hair into a shaking fist, "Why is your heat beating so fast?" she finished simply, placing her other hand on the girl's chest, the venom in her voice only slighly retreating.

You could hear a pin drop, feel a timid pencil brushing paper, in the silence that followed.

Ashley shivered, involuntarily, their eyes still locked, their gaze still held, "I guess I'm interested." She whispered, a whisper you would only hear had you been as close to her as Spencer was, had the room been as eerily silent as that car, which, Spencer had decided a few minutes before, actually did belong to Kate.

Like a magnet, helplessly attracted to its kin, Ashley leaned the molecule of a distance that separated them, pressing her lips apprehensively, almost cowardly, against Spencer's.

The earth stopped spinning—For a second.

Pressing a little harder on the hand resting against Ashley's chest, Spencer barely broke the connection, caressing the soft shell of Ashley's ear with her lips, softly licking at what she felt there, noting how its texture was like Italian silk, how it tasted like raw Jamaican sugar cane, before gently whispering, "_But I'm not_."


	5. She's A Whore

"**So,**

…tell me about Ashley."

…_let's talk about Spencer."_

"There's nothing to tell."

"_She's a bitch."_

"It seemed like there was something to tell in our last session." Spencer's therapist commented, crossing her legs patiently as Spencer reclined into the couch reserved only for her wealthiest patients, "Have things changed?"

"Marginally," Spencer replied, a small smile playing across her face, "Let's just say we're equal now."

"_Descriptive, Ashley. But, come on, use your words."_

_Ashley plopped down on Kevin's, her shrink's, couch, exhausted from her day of traveling, yet more confused and wound up than ever, "There's really no better way to describe her," She replied, staring off into the distance, at something, but really nothing at all, "She's just such a bitch…" She admitted, "and it's so…"_

_Kevin waited, well aware after ten years of treating Ashley that if he just listened, if he only kept his mouth shut, she would usually figure it on her own—She just needed time to work it all out—And she always did. _

"_endearing…"_

"Those are some pretty bold statements Ms. Davies made about you," Spencer's therapist replied, smiling quite knowingly at the blonde, "They're also devastatingly spot on."

"Whatever," Spencer scoffed, a little taken aback by the brazenness of Martha's comment, "I'm sure she has some skeletons of her own in her closet."

_Ashley did, though her ghosts were of a different variety. See, Spencer and Ashley were more alike than either knew, and perhaps if they did, would like to admit. _

"_Endearing…", Kevin considered, eyeing Ashley curiously, undeniably interested, "How so?"_

_This was where she was stuck—Where she couldn't make sense of things. All her life, Ashley had gone with the flow. She was smart—she knew that. And quick witted—no doubt. She'd had boyfriends and girlfriends for as long as she could remember, and she'd learned to time things. She could see relationships working their way through themselves like a clock—She understood people; She made sense of their actions. Yet, she couldn't understand Spencer. As much as she thought she'd figured out the girl, she knew she hadn't—she'd known in the moment Spencer pushed her away, in the seconds their lips had touched and time had stopped ticking, if only for a fraction's fraction of a second. The truth was, Ashley was a junkie for control too. She also struggled to attain it in everything she did—it helped her sleep better at night, it let her breathe. But still, there was something to be said for spontaneity, for the recklessness of life that couldn't be buckled down—that couldn't be controlled: That was where the two differed: Ashley could let go. And the fact that Spencer couldn't intrigued her, it drew her into the other girl's world._

"So, is she attractive,"

"Literally or comparatively?" Spencer parried, unconsciously inspecting her nails. Maybe that's what she would do this afternoon: Get a manicure.

"Both", Martha replied coolly, though she was, admittedly, interested.

It was then that Spencer's eyes sort of glazed over, as if she was looking at something important, but not seeing it all. She shook her head slightly, forcing herself out of whatever she had found herself in, "She's alright." She said, faking indifference.

Martha knew better, after all, she had been treating Spencer for seven years, "Just alright," She asked slyly, "I didn't know that adjective was conducive with your standards."

"Fine," Spencer snapped, suddenly incredibly irritated, "She's gorgeous."

"How gorgeous?"

Spencer paused, taking a shallow breath before shakily and ashamedly admitting, "Probably the most gorgeous girl I've ever seen."

"_So, is she hot?" Kevin asked playfully, hoping to lighten up Ashley's sullen and introspective mood._

"_She's definitely not lacking," Ashley blushed with laughter, combing a hand through her unruly hair._

"_Uh huh," Kevin teased, "I think someone's has a little crush—"_

"_I'm don't." Ashley said seriously, warning in her voice._

_Kevin sighed. They'd had this conversation what seemed like a million times before, "When are you going to get over her, Ash?"_

"_I am." she replied, not unconvincingly, but not entirely reflective of the truth, "We're through."_

_Still, Kevin knew better, "You gotta get over her, babe," He advised, "You can't keep pining over Madison."_

"So, let's talk about the kiss," Martha said cheerfully, quickly jotting a note on her legal pad.

Spencer winced at her eagerness, checking her watch for the time, "What about it?" She drawled, growing bored with the subject of their conversation.

"Was it long? Slow? Soft? Aggressive?" She asked, putting an extra punch behind the last word, "Did fireworks light up behind your—"

"God, Shut up!" Spencer exclaimed, only slightly raising her voice, though the venom in her tone was nothing if not distinguishable, "Sorry to say, but it wasn't any of those things—It was quick—That's probably the best way to describe it."

"Are you interested in kissing her again?" Martha asked, her voice now softer, almost timid. As volatile as Spencer had always been, there was no denying her heightened sensitivity in this moment. Martha could sense the turmoil—She had never seen her like this.

Seconds passed, ten or, maybe, fifteen, before Spencer responded, the quality of her voice, yet again, strangely distant, "Maybe."

"_So, you're interested…" Kevin tried, watching Ashley absent mindedly pluck at the guitar he kept in his office._

"_No…" Ashley said slowly, "I just find _her _interesting"_

"So, I'll see you next week, Spencer?" Martha asked, getting up to shake her hand. She had decided it was time to leave.

"You always do," Spencer replied coolly, slinging her purse over her shoulder.

Suddenly, Spencer was very close to Martha's face, her right hand gently, almost tortuously inching up the hem of the older woman's oxford, "I'll assume," Spencer began wickedly, the fingers of her left hand crawling a trail down the woman's right arm and towards the file she cradled there, "You'll be keeping this between the two of us?" She asked, nuzzling her head caressingly into the crook of Martha's neck.

"We wouldn't want mother to find about last week, would we?" Spencer finished, reveling in the quickened pulse she felt there.

"Of course not," Martha muttered, out of breath and tripping over her words.

"Spectacular," Spencer replied simply, walking past the woman and out the door, sarcastically exclaiming, "That was excellent. We should do this again, Martha!"

The therapist could only stand there stationary, knees weak, holding onto the wall to keep from crumbling to the floor.

_**asterickasterickasterickasterick**_

Spencer and Kate were out at Gregory's, partaking in their Sunday tradition of Ice Cream Sundaes—Ice cream was their religion and they were quite devout.

"So, she left this morning?" Spencer asked, faking indifference as she removed the cherry from the top of her Sundae, placing it on the napkin to her side.

The cherry was her favorite part and she always saved it for last.

"MmHmm," Kate concurred, concentrating on swirling her ice cream into a thick, more easily digestable, soup.

Spencer looked on disgusted, "Kate, I love you. But that's gross."

"So, is your sexual appetite, but I still hang out it with you," the other girl parried, "What happened with you two last night, anyways? You both seemed pretty upset when I got back to the car."

"Nothing," Spencer said coolly, "She's a whore."

Kate choked on her ice cream, bringing her napkin to her face as she struggled to control her laughter.

"What's wrong?" Spencer asked, instantly concerned her best friend was choking.

"I'm fine, I'm fine!" Kate said, shooing Spencer, who had gotten up to give her some fucked up version of the Heimlich Maneuver away, "It's just," Kate laughed, "You can call her a lot of things, but definitely not a whore."

"And why's that?" Spencer asked, swirling her cherry around in the remnants of her dessert.

"Because she's a _virgin_." Kate said simply, very much interested in Spencer's reaction.

"Really?" Spencer asked slowly, popping the cherry in her mouth before slowly sucking it off its stem, "That _is _interesting." And she meant it. She was very, _very, _interested.

"_So, what are you going to do?" Kevin asked as he stood up, watching Ashley get ready to leave._

_Ashley considered his question before slyly replying, "I don't think a few more days in Weston would hurt."_


	6. I'm A Lesbian Because I Like Breasts

Chapter 6-I'm A Lesbian Because I Like Breasts

Spencer was on edge, a fact not entirely surprising considering she hadn't slept in two nights nor had sex in two days. Not to say she hadn't tried, because she had, on both counts. Regardless of the reason, though she was not so disillusioned to rule out the fact that whatever she was experiencing was related to Ashley, Spencer found herself at Starbucks for the third time that Tuesday morning, tapping her debit card irritably against the check out counter as an incompetent trainee struggled fruitlessly to process her order.

"Okay, you know what?" Spencer snapped, fishing through her wallet for the deck of bills she kept there, "Take this," she continued coolly, reaching across the counter to stuff a hundred dollar bill down the bumbling neophyte's crisp shirt pocket, "Keep the change," She smiled sarcastically, leaning forward to where he was visibly shaking, "And give me my _fucking_ drink."

"So, you're a lesbian because you hate men."

Then there was that.

Sipping innocently on a tall frappuchino in Spencer's corner, the one she had dubbed her own since she was old enough to understand that caffeine was a drug from god and Starbucks was her overpricing dealer, cross-legged and eyeing Spencer as if she was new and rare species of African Gazelle, was Ashley Davies.

See, there was another reason Spencer Carlin was so antsy and it was not a 'who' but a 'when'. Courtesy of Kate, Spencer had learned of Ashley's pilgrimage back to town and their inevitable 'bumping into' was another source of all her troubles—It was making her crazy.

"No…" Spencer said slowly, "I'm a lesbian because I love breasts," She answered, unable to help herself from returning Ashley's infectious smile.

"Breasts?" Ashley laughed, watching Spencer slowly approach her table.

"MmHmm," She teased, "Perhaps you've heard of them?"

"Perhaps" Ashley said, incapable of wiping the grin off her face.

They stayed like that for a few seconds, Ashley sitting and Spencer standing, staring critically at one another as if drinking the other in, summing the other up, memorizing every crook, crevice, and plane of the other's goofily grinning face, while feeding their own insane fascinations. If you didn't know any better, you'd think they were in love.

"Oh," Ashley stuttered, forgetting her manners, "Sorry, sit."

Spencer must have forgotten herself too—as it was, she had yet to realize she was still standing.

"I didn't think I'd be seeing you again, Mary," She teased, graciously taking the seat.

"Mary…"

"The _virgin_ Mary," Spencer elaborated sweetly, a wicked smile on her face.

"Ahh, yes," Ashley replied thoughtfully, meeting and matching Spencer's smirk, "If it's any consolation, I didn't think I'd be seeing you either, Mary." Ashley countered, tearing her croissant in two.

Spencer's only reply was a cocked eyebrow as she waited for, what was sure to be, Ashley's lucrative elaboration.

"Why, Mary Magdelene, of course," She explained, smiling widely.

Again, Spencer was impressed—Thoroughly impressed.

"You are full of surprises, Ms. Davies,"

And she really was.

"As are you," Ashley replied sincerely, offering Spencer a half of her croissant.

However, with the reality of Ashley's offer also came the reality of their situation, the reality of who they were—in Spencer's case: who she herself was. And that's when it happened. Again.

Like a bad stomach flu, she felt the sensation rising, up and through her belly, across her rib cage, oozing its way down past her lungs and to her heart, where it squeezed, constricted itself like a boa constricter would the first day's catch.

"Oh, God," Spencer groaned.

"Spencer…Spence, are you okay!?" Ashley asked worriedly, hurriedly, noting Spencer's shortened breath, the hand she had clasped over her heart for dear life.

Just then, the tension began to ease itself, the boa unfurled itself, and she could breathe. Suddenly, Spencer was very aware again. As a matter of fact, she began to experience hyper sensitivity. At that moment, she was very much privy to the fact that Ashley's face was mere millimeters from her own, that her hand was tracing, carving small circles into the dips of her back, that she could feel her labored breaths on her lips.

"What put you under the impression that you could so much as touch me?" Spencer whispered slowly, turning her own gaze to meet Ashley's surprised one, the very same one that soon transformed into a scandalized grimace.

Then she was walking out, she was gone, grabbing her purse from where it had fallen on the floor in her mad rush to help Spencer, and torpedoing towards the door with, to Greta's surprise (Greta who had been phoning her nonstop for nearly a week now. After all, she was her first), Spencer right behind her, pushing and shoving her way past every caffeine addict that stood in her path.

"Wait!" Spencer yelled, out of breath, the tightness in her chest having not yet subsided.

"Don't," Ashley snapped, brusquely pulling her wrist back from where Spencer had grasped it.

"Listen," Spencer breathed, berating herself for choosing today to wear jean miniskirt, "I didn't…" She was out of breath again, having now resorted to leaning against the brick wall that housed the coffee shop.

Ashley looked at her inquisitively, puttering hopelessly between being upset and genuinely worried, "You're not in very good shape are you?"

She shouldn't have said that.

"You know what? _Fuck_ you," Spencer countered, mildly enraged.

"God…" Ashley muttered, turning again to walk away. Maybe Spencer wasn't so interesting after all.

"Wait!"

Or, maybe she was.

"For what, Spencer? What am I waiting for?"

The double meaning, or perhaps just the deeper meaning, of those words were not lost on Spencer. They did, however, act as a sort of trigger, a gentle reminder nudging Spencer towards a situation she was comfortable with: Dealing with an emotionally distressed girl.

She knew what she had to do, mainly because she had done it so many times before.

Traveling the few feet to where Ashley was standing, visually tired and understandably pissed, Spencer let only an inch separate them, before using her right hand to tuck a curl of hair behind the other girl's ear, "I'm sorry," she said softly, almost shyly, "I shouldn't have flipped out like that."

"Save it," Ashley groaned rolling her eyes, though there was no denying the smile on her face, "If you're really sorry make it up to me," She challenged.

"Excuse m—"

This wasn't how it went.

"Take me out to dinner tonight."

Spencer made the calls.

"I have pla—"

Spencer needed the power back.

"Pick me up at seven."

And then Ashley was gone, down the sidewalk and towards her car, a gleaming black, what looked to be, BMW convertible.

Spencer was left in the dust, or, more specifically, on the sidewalk, her body threatening to go into catatonic shock.

She dug through her bag frantically, looking for the plastic orange bottle she knew she kept there.

Choking down two pills, she breathed a sigh a relief.

One thing was for sure: that night would not be lacking in drama. If anything it would be fraught, or better yet, overflowing with spectacle. After all, Ashley had just signed herself up as a guest to the Carlin's weekly family dinner.

_**Sorry if this chapter seems a little dull-I really needed a way to get into the family dinner that seemed plausible and what not…regardless, THANK YOU for all the amazing comments—Silent E: yours sorta made**_ my morning. I'm still trying to get a hang of this site so I apologize in advance for spacing issues.


	7. Goodnight

Chapter 7-Goodnight

"You're taking her to family dinner?" Kate asked for the fifth time, furrowing her brows in genuine disbelief.

You couldn't blame her. Spencer didn't take anyone to family dinner. She said it was too dirty, too messy, to socially complicated. See, Spencer's family was a portrait of human dysfunction—They were insane. But not in the conventional way, not according to any definition of the word you would find in the common household dictionary. No, the dysfunction of the Carlin's was so much more intricate than that. It was personified in the way they talked, in the way they laughed, in the way the carried on with their fucked up privileged lives with no concern for one another, only caring that they were ahead in the race, beating the other in the dead sprint towards nothing at all. It was a game. One that Spencer, to all of their dismay, played best.

"Is my last answer still valid or would you like me to repeat myself again?" Spencer replied irritably as she combed her way through her walk-in closet.

She wanted something hot, but classy. Sexual, but not entirely promiscuous. After all, with her luck she'd probably be sitting across from her grandfather. No sense in making a forced affair anymore complicated than it already was.

"I'm just…" Kate struggled to find the right word, one which would express her unabashed wonderment while not threatening whatever train of thought had spawned Spencer's impromptu date with her cousin, "intrigued? She tried, verbally testing the weight of the word and the connotations it carried.

"It's not a big deal," Spencer groaned distractedly, "Just family dinner."

"Besides," She continued, some semblance of a smirk on her face, "if she can hold her own with me, I'm sure she can handle Paula."

The glint in her eye as she admitted this was miniscule, if even there at all. However, after thirteen years of friendship, you learn to catch these things, and catch Kate did. But she let it go. She was smarter than that. Kate could see the beginnings of Spencer's changing, the small molecule of a beginning. And it was for the better.

_**asterickasterickasterickasterickasterickasterickasterickasterick**_

"So, there are probably some things you should know about my family," Spencer said seriously as she put the car in reverse, backing out of Kate's driveway.

Ashley was nervous—Incredibly nervous. For some reason, she didn't imagine the Carlin clan to be welcoming hosts, this notion perhaps a by-product of her experience with their youngest, most volatile, offspring.

"First, there's grandmother: She's the cute little old lady in pearls, probably wearing a seersucker dress. She's also the only woman in the family who's not a bitch, so be nice to her," Spencer said firmly, in her seriousness missing the expression of fond approval Ashley was giving her, "Then there is Poppy, or grandpa," She continued, "He's the equally cute little old man who will be on grandmother's arm," Spencer smiled, slowing down to a stop at the first red light.

"Next we have Glen and Clay, my asshole brothers. Well, Glen's an asshole," Spencer reconsidered, "Clay's just a push over. But beware of Glen—He'll probably try to hit on you—"

"Is he cute?"

Spencer turned her head slightly, the single most disgusted look plastered to her usually, in Ashley's opinion, gorgeous face.

"Kidding," Ashley said slowly, noting the tenseness in Spencer's arms. It looked like she wasn't the only one nervous tonight.

"Then there's Arthur, my dad. He used to be a social worker till he realized that Wall Street was paved with billions. In other words, he may seem easy to talk to, but he's actually just a sleazy bastard like everybody else."

"Endearing family," Ashley remarked sarcastically, "I see where you get your charm"

"Please," Spencer laughed, "We haven't even gotten to my mother."

"And what's her story?" Ashley asked curiously, sensing she'd probably want to hear whatever it was Spencer had to say.

"She's a…" Spencer combed her extensive vocabulary searching for the perfect word, instead settling for the simplest, "character," She finished, pulling into the long driveway of a large white colonial mansion. Past the plush curtains that lined the interior of the windows, she could make out her father and mother.

"They look normal," Ashley commented, inspecting the scene.

"You should know," Spencer replied.

"Looks can be deceiving," they said in unison, a small smile on both their faces.

"You ready?" Spencer asked, releasing the breath she didn't know she was holding.

"Does it matter?" Ashley teased.

"Nope."

And they were out of the car, walking slowly, as if they were solemn soldiers heading for war, to the front door of the Carlin estate.

"Hey, Ashley?" Spencer asked as she reached out to ring the doorbell.

"Yeah?"

"Did you, perchance, take any acting classes in high school?"

"A couple. Why?" Ashley asked inquisitively as the front door swung open, revealing a sardonically beaming Paula and Arthur.

"Oh, sweetheart," Arthur said gaily, "We're so glad you could make it," he finished, wrapping Spencer in his flimsy excuse for a hug.

"And you must be Ashley," Paula drawled, extending her hand, "It's so nice to finally meet Spencer's girlfriend," She finished ushering the two through the door.

Spencer laced her warm fingers through Ashley's soft ones, genuinely enjoying the touch of surprise evident in the other girls features, "You might need them tonight," she whispered as Paula and Arthur moved farther along, instructing the maid to fetch the drinks.

"Come on," Spencer laughed, raising her voice as she dragged Ashley along, "Let me give you a tour of the house, _sweetheart_."

_**asterickasterickasterickasterickasterickasterickasterick**_

Ashley had seen Spencer's childhood play room, her pool, all six tennis courts, the golf course doubling as her backyard as well as the steam and sauna located on the ground floor. She was exhausted, but also intrigued. Spencer hadn't let go of her hand once. In all honesty, she couldn't condemn the girl for her little white lie—Truth be told, she probably would've done the same, if only to inconvenience her straitlaced mother and garner attention from her distant father. Still, there was something to be said for the Carlin's and as she and rest of Spencer's family made their way to the dining room table, she could feel tension increase tenfold.

The lineup went as follows: At the two heads of the table, from left to right, were Paula and Arthur respectively. Glen and his wife, who had earlier been introduced as Susan, made camp next to Arthur, Clay and his girlfriend, who Ashley knew to be Chelsea, took up Arthur's side, leaving Grandmother, Poppy, Spencer, and Ashley to fend for themselves against Paula.

"Shall we say grace." Paula said coolly, extending a hand to both Spencer and Poppy who made up her left and right. It wasn't a question—It was never a question.

"Father," Paula began, closing her eyes as the rest of table followed suit, "we thank you for all your blessings,"

Spencer nudged Ashley lightly, eliciting a grin out of the other girl as rolled her eyes sarcastically towards Paula, already bored with Paula's prayer.

_It's weird_ Ashley thought, never taking her eyes of Spencer even when the other girl's closed, _She seems almost…human._

"Mother," Spencer said sweetly, interrupting Paula's lengthy grace, "I don't think God would appreciate your letting our meal get cold—"

"Like your heart?" Glen chimed in, smugly self satisfied.

"No," Spencer said calmly, never missing a beat, "Like your marriage."

Even amongst the small table of ten, there was an audible grumble—Spencer was good. She always had been.

"Kids," Arthur cut in tiredly, a small smile on his face, "not until the appetizers come out."

Glen smiled sweetly at his younger sister, "Of course."

Spencer parried smoothly, "Can't wait."

_**asterickasterickasterickasterickasterickasterickasterick**_

The appetizers went and came with only one small spat between Arthur and Paula, the latter deciding it was far more worth her time to, instead of partaking in the fucked up interactions of her family, to conversate Ashley.

In truth, Spencer wasn't worried. And she didn't have to be. Ashley held her own commendably, even Paula was impressed. The girl was quick, no doubt, and smart, a fact that was increasingly becoming clear to the rest of the Carlin's.

"So," Poppy asked enthusiastically, working at his steak with incredible vigor for someone his age, "How did you two meet?"

Spencer looked at Ashley who was grinning, signaling her to take the floor.

"Well," Spencer began, "Ashley is Kate Fitzpatrick's cousin," she said smoothly, motioning for Ashley to continue.

It was a game. Ashley was beginning to understand that.

"I came up for the weekend," Ashley continued, giggling, as if smitten, in Spencer's direction.

"We went on a few dates,"

"And I guess we just," Ashley said slowly, lacing their fingers on top of the table where everyone could see them, "hit it off."

The reactions from their audience differed.

Poppy, who had originally asked the question, cooed, along with his wife, sick with nostalgia over the blooming romance.

Glen gagged on his string beans, earning him a swift smack on the back from Susan who feared he was choking.

Clay looked on, like his father, with indifference, glancing at this Rolex to see how much more of this fucking family torture he had to endure while Paula just watched them sweetly, too sweetly for Spencer's tastes.

"Isn't that charming?" Paula replied, wiping at the corner's of her mouth with a crisp white napkin, "And I take it you two are serious?" She continued, very much interested.

Spencer could see the gambit Paula was hoping they'd produce and was on the cusp of closing it when Ashley opened her mouth first, "As serious as Mike Tyson was when he bit off Evander Holyfield's ear."

There was an awkward stretch of silence.

"Yeah," Spencer chimed in cheerfully, not allowing her family to have the upper hand, "we're that serious."

The rest of the table laughed out of necessity, in search of normalcy.

"Well," Paula began, "I must say, I find that admirable—I mean, considering Spencer's past."

Ashley's smiled tightened—She hadn't seen that coming.

"Mother," Spencer warned, not willing to let her mother venture into whatever territory she was eyeing so enthusiastically.

"No, no, dear. I'm being honest," Fat chance, "I think it's commendable that a woman of Ashley's caliber could look past a quite epic, Spencer's words, not mine, series of one night stands, drug and alcohol problems, not to mention an obscure OCD disorder, and love you regardless," Paula sighed, shuffling a heap of peas onto her fork, "It's actually _quite_ lovelt."

Spencer couldn't sit still anymore—not there. Her mother had crossed an invisible line and she was angry. She was fucking enraged.

"I need a glass of water," Spencer said coolly, getting up from her seat and walking towards the kitchen.

"Oh, please, sit down, sweetheart," Paula said cloyingly, "I'm sure one of the maids can get it."

But Spencer was gone, already headed towards the kitchen where, she was sure, the whole table could view her. Still it was enough of a distance—At least for now.

Spencer was so caught up in her own anger, she didn't feel Ashley slide in behind her, wrapping her arms slowly, teasingly around her waist.

"They're watching," She whispered, burying her face in the crook of her neck.

Spencer understood. Snaking her left arm behind Ashley's head she pulled her, eased her towards her lips, relishing in the softness of what she felt there. It was slow—Too slow—Painstakingly slow. But it was beautiful. And for a second, both girls forgot they were putting on a show, forgot they were anywhere but there, in that moment, with each other, because what else could they do? What else could they think as pink tongues darted out cautiously, cowardly exploring the other's lips, sheepishly venturing into the contours of the other's mouth. Minutes passed though they seemed like the cruelest shortest seconds before Ashley pulled away, out of breath and exhausted from her head to her toes. In the moments during which Spencer regained consciousness, she marked Ashley's bruised lips, and felt the numb tingling sensation coursing through her own. They could've stood like that, pressed together impossibly close in the kitchen of the Carlin mansion had they not been so rudely interrupted, so irritably shaken out of their stupor.

"Dinner's over."

It was Paula. And she was not pleased.

_**asterickasterickasterickasterickasterickasterick**_

"Dinner was good," Ashley said slowly, surprised by the shallowness of her voice. Spencer had just pulled up in front of Kate's house, marking the end of their unconventional, to say the least, date.

"It was…" Spencer said slowly, staring out the window aimlessly, hopelessly.

"Sp—"

"I think you're trying to kill me," Spencer said quietly, the honesty leaking off her voice making even Ashley uncomfortable.

She didn't know what to say. For the first time in what seemed like years, Ashley Davies was rendered speechless. The concentration of emotions swimming around in Spencer's Range Rover were at an all time high, drowning both girls out, making it near impossible to breathe.

Ashley didn't know what to say, and she didn't have to.

Spencer said it for her, "Goodnight."

**PHEWWWW. Here she is—ch.7. I hope you enjoy it. I, myself, have a lot of love for this bad boy just because I stayed up until 3 in the morning writing it. ON THAT NOTE, please leave me some feedback ******

**As always, thanks so much for reading.**


	8. I Think I Just Did

Chapter 8- I Think I Just Did

Spencer was numb from the inside out, and it wasn't even that she couldn't feel—It's that suddenly, without ample warning or word, she felt too much—She was suffocating. It had been four days since the episode at the Carlin mansion, 96 hours since the kiss, 5,760 minutes marking the apocalypse of her perfectly crafted reality. See, Spencer wasn't only confused—She was mentally undone. In the seven years following her thirteenth birthday, she had learned the intricacies of self sufficiency, become proficient in surviving without the trifles that plagued the ordinary, that bit at the ankles of the unexceptional: See, Spencer had conditioned herself to not feel love, to never recognize nurturing; She had built up an immunity to every variety of affection, all the time thinking, every day brazenly assuming, she was molding herself into the perfect person, rendering herself untouchable. But now it seemed her greatest strengths had pivoted and reversed themselves, leaving her naked, stripped, with only weaknesses to show.

"Baby…That was amazing," A voice rasped, husky and low, thick with the aftermath of arousal.

This is what Spencer did—This is how she medicated. But, right now, Heather (or was it Mary Ellen? Both were brunettes with spectacular tits) was too close, or perhaps the room was just becoming too small, either way, disregarding what exactly it was, Spencer thought she was going to vomit.

"You need to leave," she stated coldly, not bothering to look at the sweaty body that lay motionless, pleasantly exhausted, in her bed.

"I thought you said I could spend the—"

"I lied. Get out."

The coldness with which she said this was frightening, even to herself. Nevertheless, Mary Ellen (Spencer was now quite convinced it was Mary Ellen—Heather had a rounder breasts) was up and gone, dragging her clothes in a heap behind her, probably weighing the repercussions of getting dressed in Spencer's room versus clothing her nude body in dark confines of her car as far riskier.

This is what it had been like for days—countless fucks—nameless fucks—some of which she couldn't even remember. Spencer, each time harboring a little hope, holding onto the idea that this just might be it—that this time it would make all the pain go away. Because, as much as Spencer Carlin hated to admit it, she was dying a little on the inside. Yes, as much as Spencer Carlin tried to ignore it, there was one scene playing on repeat like an old movie in her head, one kiss still lingering on her still trembling lips, and one girl, regardless of any amount of alcohol, regardless of all amounts of sex, constantly on her mind and it was tearing her apart.

"Fuck," Spencer groaned, slamming the drawer of bureau angrily, not finding what she needed there.

Pulling on a pair of old shorts and an old t-shirt, she grabbed her car keys. She had to go to Kate's—She kept an extra stash of pills there.

_**asterickasterickasterickasterickasterickasterickasterickasterickasterick**_

"Hey, stranger."

Kate hadn't seen Spencer in days. A fact which, under normal circumstances might have bothered her—but then, these weren't really normal, were they? To tell the truth, she'd figured Spencer could use the time alone, the time away to medicate—to do what she did best, because if she didn't retract to her old ways, if she didn't fuck up, she'd wouldn't really be changing—at least not in the way that lasts. It'd be something else, something of an entirely different variety—something that wouldn't stick because it couldn't, and that's not what she wanted for her best friend. So, she let her breathe, knowing eventually she'd have to hold her breath again.

"Hey," Spencer said softly, unable to mask the grin on her face as Kate wrapped her in a long overdue hug—She'd missed this.

"Come on, come in—"

"I shouldn't—"

"She's not here," Kate groaned, a smile on her face as she pulled Spencer into the house, "Get in."

_**asterickasterickasterickasterickasterickasterickasterickasterickasterick**_

"So," Spencer began, doing her best to coat her tone with the perfect nuance of nonchalance, "where's Ashley?"

Kate smiled inwardly, doing her best to match Spencer's acquired indifference, "I don't know," She began plainly, "Out, I guess."

"Out where?"

Party foul.

Spencer had said that too quickly—far too quickly.

"Out selling herself on the street, Spencer," Kate replied sarcastically, finally turning around to face her slightly blushing friend.

God, things are changing…Spencer never blushed—never.

"Well," Spencer parried, doing her best to gain back ground, after all, her flushed cheeks had lost her quite a bit, "if that's true she'll be coming back a rich woman—virgins are always a jackpot."

"Charming," Kate drawled, handing Spencer a mug of coffee.

"I do try."

The two were practically immune to caffeine and thus assumed one mug of joe wouldn't deter them from their sleeping habits too significantly and if it did, they could always stay up and talk—it was, after all, what they did best.

"You know," Kate began, blowing lightly on the plumes rising from her handled tumbler "I'm surprised you haven't attempted to undress her yet."

"And why's that?" Spencer asked smoothly, not willing herself to let Kate have the upperhand—at least not again.

"Because she has brilliant tits."

Touche.

"_Excuse me!?"_

Even when grossly surprised, Spencer still maintained an air of diplomacy. However, that wasn't enough to deflect the beverage flying past her lips and out her mouth as she stared gapingly at her best friend.

"What?" Kate shrugged innocently as she watched Spencer walk to the kitchen sink and poor the remainder of her coffee down the drain.

"_So_ innapropriate…" Spencer scoffed, staring at her best friend in genuine and quite disgusted disbelief.

"Oh, stop it! You say things like that all the time—"

"That's different!—"

"How so!?"

"It's me!" Spencer admitted, still refusing to believe her sweet, innocent, as far as she knew, not incestuous, best friend Kate had let slip that her cousins breasts were—

"When, exactly, was the last you saw them?" Spencer asked inquisitively, cocking an eyebrow for good measure.

Kate turned sheepish, tracing the ceramic rim of her mug before confessing, "It's a small apartment, Spence."

"God, you're being ridiculous—" She continued defiantly but Spencer waved her off, not willing the girl to speak just yet

Both girls were so consumed in their own trifles, more specifically, Kate's most inappropriate admission, that they barely heard the front door open, almost didn't notice the two giggling shadows of a figure that tumbled into the kitchen, both clearly, and quite incredibly, drunk.

It was Ashley who spoke first, stopping dead in her tracks, not sure if who she saw was real or if it was just a hologram, like the one constantly invading her dreams. On her arm, still encapsulated in a fit of laughter was a lean blonde, one who looked suspiciously very much like our…

"Spencer?"

But Spencer couldn't speak—Spencer couldn't do much of anything, actually. See, her gaze hadn't yet shifted. It was still quite stoically eyeing, no, intolerably glowering, at the linked hands connecting Ashley and her new friend. Spencer was jealous.

"Umm," Ashley muttered—She rarely, if ever, muttered, "Spencer this is Wendy, Wendy, Spencer,"

What happened next was probably the worst thing that could've happened. See, Spencer knew Wendy—She knew her quite well. As a matter of fact, she knew her in the most intimate of ways. After all, Wendy Hilshire [iwas[/i the governors daughter. Had Spencer not been feeling as vindictive as she was then, if she hadn't, perhaps, been overcome by this strange new emotion, the very same one that, and I should know from experience, makes people say and do the stupidest, if not the most vile things, she probably would've kept her mouth shut. Alas…

"We've met."

And with those words, came a thick fog you couldn't see through, a translucent film you couldn't cut through—You didn't need a major in English to interpret what Spencer meant.

But Ashley had one (well, she was in the process of getting one--One more year at Princeton and she'd be set) and with this new morsel of knowledge in mind, she did the comitted the one atrocity she knew would hurt Spencer most—the one action she was sure might break her, because as much as she'd missed the other, as much as she hadn't been able to stop thinking about her, right now she just wanted her to burn, she wanted her to feel as much as she was feeling right now and there was only one way to evoke such an emotion.

Ashley kissed Wendy and she kissed her hard.

"Brilliant…" It was a game—It was always a game and for the first time Spencer was too tired to keep playing.

"I should get going," Spencer spat, pushing past the momentarily forgotten Kate, the same Kate who was staring, wide eyed and mouth agape, at the scene unfolding before her—it was epic.

"No."

This time it was Ashley who spoke, her voice that cut through the silence.

"Stay."

But Spencer was already gone, pushing her way past Ashley, shuffling through Wendy and mere inches, no, centimeters, from the foyer, her footsteps echoing against the marble that they touched.

"God, you'd rather die before letting yourself feel, wouldn't you?"

You could hear a pin drop--literally.

That was it—That was the match that lit the fuse because Spencer was feeling—She was feeling more than any person should and she'd be damned to allow Ashley, Ashley the source of all her problems, to tell her otherwise.

"Do not…" Spencer whispered, taking a cold step towards the other girl, "Don't you dare…"

"Then stop running," Ashley whispered back, taking an equal step towards the girl, "Stop pretending you're not interested," You could hear the emotion almost as much as you could feel it.

"I'm not!"

Spencer snapped—This was too much too fast. And as she let the words fly off her lips, as she let them hang in the three feet between them, she prayed to god they were true, because if they weren't, she might break.

This time it was Ashley who spoke, her voice, like her face, drenched with tears because, truth be told, she was already broken—she had been since the moment she stepped out of Spencer's car, in the seconds their lips had met in the Carlin kitchen and she had sworn, she'd known, the world had stopped, "Then why is your heart beating so fast?"

Spencer glanced down, now frozen, finally rooted into the space in which she stood, because pressed against her chest like a defibulator whose goal it was to start her broken heart, was Ashley's hand.

"I should go," And she really did need to, because right then, she couldn't let Ashley see her cry. As she reached out for the doorknob, not even noting the coldness of the metal as it pressed into her tear stained hand, she heard Ashley one more time

"My family's going up to Nantucket tomorrow. I'm leaving around noon," Her voice cracked then, "Could you at all manage to say goodbye?" It wasn't cold and it wasn't sarcastic—it was honest. Ashley was being so honest and Spencer felt it breaking her, she felt it breaking both of them.

As she finally turned the handle, barely recognizing the tear that slid down her face as she walked through the door, she raised her voice barely above a whisper in reply, "I think I just did."

**okay---so, i owe you guys a huge apology. i, personally, hate when fics don't update daily because it just drives me insane but this chapter was actually killing me--i mean, i sortve hate it and never want to see it again. having said that, i'm sorry. i just couldn't get into it, but then i didn't want it to suck cuase you guys are all so chill and it'd be shitty to dissapoint you...gah. anyways, here you go. i sincerely hope and pray you didn't hate it. as always, please leave comments. **

**thanks**


	9. Nantucket's For Pussies

Chapter 9- Nantucket's For Pussies

"So, you let her go?"

It was early Sunday morning, which meant one thing: A meeting with Martha. Their session had begun much like the all the others—general, bland, uninteresting in the most uninteresting of ways. However, inevitably, and much to Spencer's chagrin, their conversation had taken a turn towards the night before—a night Spencer soon hoped she would forget.

"I didn't 'let her go'" Spencer spat, tensing unnoticeably before sardonically continuing, "I never had her in the first place—"

"It doesn't sound that way," Martha parried thoughtfully, watching Spencer with a quiet renewed interest as the young woman shifted uncomfortably on the couch much like she'd been doing for nearly an hour now.

"Hmm," Spencer hummed sarcastically, eyeing the clock, "It wouldn't, would it?"

To tell the truth, she'd had enough of this for quite awhile now and Martha's sincere attentiveness was making her terribly uneasy. Spencer just wanted to leave, meet Kate at Gregory's, breathe in the air of an Ashley free world—she wanted to feel her life adjust itself back to normal.

"You can't live like this forever, Spencer,"

"Live like what?"

"Like an emotional nomad—never settling, never sticking around long enough to realize you just might like it there—you just might like breathing, living."

"Please," Spencer spat, "I do live—I live every day, I live every night. I have one best friend because it's all I need. I sleep with a plethora of women because it's all I crave," She confessed bitterly, unapologetically, "I'm sorry if my version of happiness isn't conducive with the everybody else's."

"You're telling me your happy?"

"_Ecstatic._"

"But do you feel?"

"What do you mean 'do I feel'?" Spencer asked incredulously, her voice raising a few decibels, "I feel everything—anger, jealousy, lust—"

"But do you feel _love?_"

Spencer almost hesitated, almost—"Love is unnecessary."

Martha sighed, finally adjusting her thick reading glasses from where they were perched on the end of her nose, "You're not a thirteen year old little girl anymore, Spencer," She said gently, "It's okay to love."

_Spencer was ecstatic—Today was her thirteenth birthday and she had the world at her fingertips—literally. Surrounding her, circling her lithe body in the depths of her playroom were gifts of all sizes and assortments, each wrapped perfectly with a bright red bow crowning its top._

"_Happy birthday, sweetheart," Paula whispered in the little girls ear, wrapping her daughter, the light of her life, in a warm hug before pressing a soft kiss into her forehead._

"_Jesus, Spence. Mom didn't get me half this many presents for my thirteenth," Glen whined, though he looked fondly upon his just-turned-thirteen little sister—He loved her._

"_Alright, everyone get together for a family picture!" Arthur laughed jovially, wrapping his arm a around a beaming Clay before placing a tender hand on Spencer's shoulder._

_The photographer took a few snaps before signaling the end of his work, "You guys are the perfect family," He confessed enviably, shaking his head at the perfect mechanics of the Carlin family. He wondered how a group so wealthy could still be so grounded—They really were the American dream._

"_Mom?" Spencer squeaked, a nervous smile on her usually energetic with life face, "Can I talk to you and the rest of the family?" _

"_Of course, sweetheart," Paula replied sincerely, pulling the girl into her arms._

"_Yeah, what's up, squirt?" Glen joked, settling into the girl's plush Barbie Pink sofa._

_They were all waiting, watching, wondering what they're birthday girl had to say._

"_I…" Spencer stuttered, suddenly more nervous than ever—she loved her family and she wanted them to love her too._

"_Hey…" Arthur soothed, lacing his little girls fingers with his own, "It's okay. Whatever you have to say, you can tell us._

"_I…" Spencer tried again, more confident with her father's words, "I think I like girls."_

_Suddenly the whole room changed—Everything was sharper, rougher, so incredibly crude. The pinks deepened, now a searing shade of magenta, as the dolls seemed to fall—the life mysteriously sucked out of them one by one._

_It was Paula who moved first, slowly unwrapping her arms from around her baby girl, noting how her once supple skin now felt foreign and irritatingly unfamiliar as she turned away, walking straight towards door._

"_Paula!" Arthur called, retracting his once comforting hand as he followed his wife, as he went after her blindly to wherever she might lead._

_It was just Spencer and the boys now, the boys who were looking at her strangely, gazing upon her tiny form as if she were some sort of cockroach, some variety of an intolerable pariah—like she was poison._

"_God…" Glen whispered, no longer seeing his sweet, lovable baby sister, but instead grimacing at the vomit inducing figure sitting in her place, "You're sick."_

_Then he was gone dragging Clay, always the pushover Clay, close behind him in search of their parents, in pursuit of their family. It was then that Spencer finally understood what it meant to be alone as she sat abandoned in the middle of her playroom, the towering gifts that surrounded her no longer quite so glamorous. She heard door slams, recognized voices being raised, and the tears that burned trails down her face were ones she knew she'd never forget._

"Spencer?"

"What?" the girl replied crossly, suddenly shaken out of the memory—it was her worst.

"I said it's okay to love now," Martha tried again, her voice softer, her tone gentler as she tried desperately to reach the girl wherever she might be.

"No, it's not," Spencer replied coolly, emboldened by her childhood recollection, "It's never okay to love because it never lasts. Someone always gets hurt inevitably,"

"That's not true—"

"But it is. There's no way to know everything about someone and love them at the same time—it's impossible—that sort of thing doesn't exist and struggling, fighting futilely to find it, makes you weak. I refuse to be weak."

"But you'll entertain being miserable?"

"I am not miserable—"

"Please," Martha spat, making unfaltering eye contact with the girl, "I've been having sessions with you for seven years now. Watching you saunter in here and plop down on that couch as if it was all pointless, as if your life is so full and so perfect, but I can see you, Spencer. You're hollow—You're so empty and you hate it."

"Shut up," Her voice was barely above a whisper but it spoke volumes, the line between venom and distress no longer so clear.

"Sooner or later, you're going to have to feel something, Spencer. Eventually, you're going to crave the richness of life that surrounds you. If you let her go you'll—"

"Regret it," Spencer murmured. She suddenly felt sick.

"She's perfect, isn't she?"

Spencer took a deep breath, hopelessly battling the nausea that was threatening to override her senses, "She's alright,"

"Alright?—"

"Oh my god, I need to find her," Spencer admitted suddenly, quickly snatching her purse from where it lay on the floor.

And then she was moving, sprinting past the couch and towards the door faster than she had ever done before.

"Wait!" Martha bellowed, catching the girl in the knick of time, "Why?"

"Because…" Spencer said carefully, suddenly incredibly out of breath, "Because I'm interested," She began slowly, surprising herself with her own words, "Because I'm so, so interested. I actually don't think I've ever been more interested in my entire life."

Then she was gone, flying through the door and out towards her car.

Martha smiled. Spencer had needed to hear that. Now, she knew, she'd never turn back.

_**asterickasterickastertickasterickasterickasterickasterick**_

"Where is she?" Spencer asked quickly, making a sharp turn into the right lane of the road.

"Where's who?"

Spencer groaned incredibly irritated, "Mother Theresa, Kate," She snapped sarcastically, "Where's _Ashley?_"

"She just left,"

_Fuck_

"Which way is she going?"

"Umm…" Kate hummed, picking her brain for the conversation she had just had with Ashley, "I think she's taking 93 South—"

Spencer hung up before making a u-turn.

If Ashley wasn't a moron, and from her experience, she was not, she knew exactly where she'd be.

_**asterickasterickasterickasterickasterickasterickasterick**_

"Where the fuck are you…" Spencer muttered, jittering in her seat. She was nervous, and why shouldn't she be? The amount of spontaneity worked into this moment and the one approaching it was far more than she was used to but she had to keep moving because she feared if she stopped, she'd never go again at all. Then she saw her—Well, not her, but her car nearly four yards away, the first in line at the stoplight.

"Ashley!" Spencer yelled, holding her hand on the honk.

_Fuck, that was stupid_ she thought, recognizing the idiocy of the moment.

"I'm not doing this…" She muttered, shaking her head in genuine disbelief, "God, I'm so doing this," she refuted, throwing the car door open as she bounded down the street, as she sprinted, yes, sprinted, past the cars that stood between her, past the faces that whizzed by dizzily as she ran to where Ashley was, as she raced into the middle of the busy intersection.

"Spencer!" Ashley screamed, watching as a Jeep swiveled and skidded in an attempt the dodge the crazy fucking blonde darting towards her.

"Ashley!" Spencer shouted, out of breath scared shitless as she leaned on the edge of the girls' convertible, only barely making out her face contorted in incredulity.

"Spencer, what are you doing!?"

The light turned green.

"Get in!" Ashley, unlocking the backdoor fervently.

"No, get out!" Spencer parried, still struggling to catch her breath. She needed to do this now while she still had it in her.

"Are you _crazy_!?"

It was a valid question.

"No, I'm not crazy," Spencer spat sarcastically, "Now, get out!"

People were honking now and they were honking loudly.

"God..." Spencer muttered, suddenly incredibly irritated, "SHUT THE FUCK UP!" She bellowed, giving the twenty or so cars behind Ashley's the finger.

"Spencer, get i—"

"Listen, I'm not getting in and if you leave me now I'm most likely going to get pummeled by a fat trucker who hasn't learned to use his rear view mirrors properly, so just get out," Spencer stated matter-of-factly, "Please?"

Ashley opened the door, closing it behind her roughly as the cars behind her began to weasel their way around, giving the girls dirty looks as the finally drove past them.

"Spencer, what are you doi—"

"I'm sorry," She began, it was sincere, it was honest, it was seven days pent up frustration and she was done with it, "Ashley," She whispered, taking another step closer to the girl, "I'm so sorry,"

They were mere inches a part now, Ashley's shallow breaths in time with Spencer's, "I'm rude, I'm a bitchy, I never apologize, I can't smile without making it a sneer, and I can't laugh without always fucking wondering…I'm damaged, Ashley. I'm so damaged and I've never felt more whole then when I'm with you. You're right—You were always right. I am interested, and I can't feel—or at least I couldn't. But I do now, and if you leave today, if you leave _me_, I don't know if I ever will again," A single tear slid down Spencer's face, a twin to the one makings its course down Ashley's cheek, "I'm not asking you for forever, or for a year, or even fore next week—I'm just asking you now. Please, don't leave me now."

In that moment, it was only them. They didn't hear the cars speeding by, the symphony of horns ringing out across the street, like an angry church chorus—It was just them—Only Spencer and Ashley, pressed up against the side of Ashley's car, holding each other for dear life.

"Is that it?" Ashley breathed, nearly choking on her tears.

Spencer smiled knowingly before leaning in to whisper, "And Nantucket's for pussies."

"Martha's Vineyard?" Ashley muttered back, staring at Spencer's lips—They were so close.

"Born and raised," Spencer replied softly, tracing a smooth finger across the girls jaw line.

"Kiss me," It was a demand, not a question.

"But the cars—"

"They can go fuck themselves," Ashley smiled wickedly, meeting Spencer's lips with her own.

They stood like that for minutes, smack dab in the middle of traffic with only each other's lips to egg them on.

**phewwwwwwwwwww. first of all, thank you for the all the amazing comments on the last chapter. i will personally never look at it again, but i'm glad you were guys were able to get something good out of it. on another note, this chapter was a lot easier to wrie (it didn't take three days) and it's sort've long (9 pages on word) so i hope it will make up for ch.8. i was browsing the forum and noticed something called FOF?? i think i get the concept behind it if not the abbreviation so i think i'll do one of those tomorrow. regardless--i hope you enjoyed ch.9! as always, please leave feedback**


	10. I Can Hardly Wait

Chapter 10- I Can Hardly Wait

Paula Carlin blamed Spencer—See, she blamed her for everything. If it weren't for her youngest daughter, the light of her life, she wouldn't have been shuffling through a stack of papers, combing mindlessly through a tower of resumes, in pursuit of her fourth new secretary that month. No, if it wasn't for Spencer, her dear, dear, Spencer, Paula wouldn't have had to trade in her two point five million dollar antique corporate desk, the one she'd caught Theresa, the secretaries secretary, spread eagle on just last week, a perfectly kempt golden blonde mane bobbing coquettishly in its mists. It seemed, in Paula's opinion, Spencer, during the course of the last seven years, had garnered an uncanny and quite positively maddening ability to ruin just about anything—always with a smile, an equally enraging smirk spread across her perfectly complexioned face. But, be sure, Paula's condemnation of her daughter did not stop there. See, in Mrs. Carlin's opinion, in her homophobic elitist mind, Spencer was responsible for the disintegration of their family, for the obliteration of the love and comfort that once surrounded, no, encompassed, her home. She had taken every dream, every good thing Paula once called her own, and vandalized it, defaced it beyond any kind of recognition. Spencer was a parasite of the worst variety and Paula made it her business to exterminate her under any circumstance possible. Now, don't get me wrong—Paula would never physically hurt her daughter. After all, despite their laundry list of differences, they were family and their resemblance was evident within even the smallest flecks of their eyes. Still, there was something to be said for the damage one can inflict on the mind, and Paula knew of this all too well. The funny thing? She didn't feel guilty. She didn't feel pain. Paula Carlin didn't feel anything because as far as she was concerned, Spencer had started this—On her thirteenth birthday, she had sounded the horn for war and Paula would be damned to not meet her challenge halfway. No, Mrs. Carlin had no qualms in breaking her daughter. She would rather see her dead than alive and living the life she had chosen.

_**asterickasterickasterickasterickasterickasterickasterick**_

"So, you chased her," Kate began slowly, toying thoughtfully with the fry she had yet to devour, "into the middle of traffic?"

The incredulity of her tone was not lost on Spencer.

"First of all, I did not chase her. 'Chase' suggests a sort of desperateness—I was not desperate,"

"So what word would you suggest?"

"Approach," Spencer stated matter-of-factly, flagging the waiter down to refill her vanilla smoothie, "I approached her in the middle of traffic—"

"And the word 'approach' suggests…?"

"An air of diplomacy, a sense of significance, but, and most importantly, not anguish. And besides, if you don't believe me, watch the news again tonight. I'm sure they'll be all over it.

It's true—the news was all over it—the local news that is. They were actually the only reason Spencer and Ashley's lips ever parted—Spencer, much to Ashley's chagrin, deciding an intersection fraught with angry, wealthy socialites and FOX news helicopters was probably not conducive to an ample make up spot. Nevertheless, the girls' epic kiss had made the nightly news for three days now, each segment divulging an equally embarrassing yet freakishly accurate bit of information as to who exactly the fresh local celebrities were. Spencer was growing tired of it however and sensed the news anchor, an attractive red head who lips seemed to tighten each time she said Ashley's name was as well—Spencer vaguely remembering fucking her inside a Dolce and Gabbana stall that previous summer.

"I think someone's falling in love—"

"_Do not_ say the l-word," Spencer warned seriously.

It had been four days since Sunday, three days since Ashley had left, courtesy of her mother who insisted she spend at least a week with her family before embarking on her own crazy summer whims, and the l-word was all Spencer could think about. Not to say she was falling in love, because she wasn't—Or at least she was quite sure she wasn't. After all, it was too soon and after nine days that would be too fast. No, Spencer's musings concerning the loathsome word that plagued her thoughts was in response to what Martha, the disconcertingly wise Martha, had said to her just days before.

_Eventually, you're going to crave the richness of life that surrounds you._

Love wasn't richness—Love was a death of the most miserable and intricate variety. Yet, Spencer couldn't help, and believe me she tried, pondering the possibility of a life not alone—a dwelling beyond one night stands and empty handles of alcohol. She wasn't interested, per say, just incredibly curious.

"You'll be cooing it eventually," Kate teased playfully, drinking in the replica of nausea that was Spencer's face.

"Whore," Spencer spat, grabbing a fry.

"Slut,"

"Cunt,"

"Perv,"

"Incestuous bastard," Spencer parried smoothly, a playful smirk on her face, " By the way, I'll let you know how her 'brilliant' tits feel once she gets back from Nantucket,"

"You're an asshole," Kate shot back defeated, though she found refuge in stealing the last fry.

"Please," Spencer smiled, "we both know that," she finished, waving a waiter down—They needed more fries.

_**asterickasterickasterickasterickasterickasterickasterickasterick**_

Ashley was anxious. As a matter of fact, she was antsy beyond belief. See, Nantucket was actually the last place she wanted to be, and as she sat in Tacos Tacos, picking at the burrito she had bought there, she realized she was actually seeing the last person she wanted to see. You have to understand, there was more to Ashley than either Spencer or Kate knew and the moments that were sure to follow would be a reminder of that. Not to say Ashley was a bad person, because she wasn't—She was kind, and good, and true. But she was also playful, and teasing, and fun, and it was with this spirit that she found herself in her current situation, the tendrils of her soul tearing her apart.

"So," a voice began jovially, though the quality of sleaziness in his tone anything if not indecipherable, "I believe the wager was a thousand dollars," he finished, dealing a deck of hundred dollar bills in front of her sagging burrito.

"Stop," Ashley said, suddenly incredibly sick as she slid the wad of bills back towards him, "I don't want your money, Aiden."

"Oh, come on," he refuted sarcastically, rolling his eyes as he slouched into the booth, "A bet's a bet, and you won. No shame in winning the game," he added playfully, pushing wad of bills back towards her.

"The bet's off—"

"The bet's over. You broke her just like you were supposed to—"

"I didn't break anyone," Ashley spat, leaning forward until their noses were barely touching, "And as far as any one outside of this conversation is concerned, our little bet never existed," She finished calmly, her voice exuding a venom and confidence that shook even Aiden.

"Oh, contraire—"

Suddenly, Ashley was closer—much closer, impossibly closer if that's even possible, "Do not test me, Aiden."

There was more than warning in her voice—there was something else, something so incredibly desperate it was almost reckless, but to Aiden, frightening.

Before he could form a coherent thought, she was up and moving out towards Broad Street—he caught her in the nick of time.

"Ash, what about—"

"Forget about it," She spat coldly, not bothering to turn around. If she had she might've noticed a few things, a couple details which, had she discovered them, may have avoided the devastation that was inevitably soon to follow. See, had Ashley rotated her head just a half degree to her left, she would've caught Aiden's sleazy smile, the smug look of satisfaction he wore like a trophy as he dialed an all to familiar phone number into his over priced cell phone.

_**asterickasterickasterickasterickasterickasterickasterick**_

"So, is she like a hardcore virgin? Or like a 'with-enough-drinks-I'll-totally-go-down-on-you' kind of virgin?" Spencer asked seriously, polishing off her and Kate's second plate of fries.

"Because you're not averse to lowering her inhibitions to get her in bed with you?"

Spencer smiled wickedly before continuing, "It's not like she'll regret it in the morning,"

"Your mother will _love_ this," Kate grinned, wiping her greasy fingers off on Spencer's napkin.

"God, I know…I wonder if she's seen the news."

_**asterickasterickasterickasterickasterickasterickasterick**_

"You disgust me…" Paula muttered inaudibly, bitterly watching Spencer and Ashley's intimate exchange on the channel four news. It made her skin crawl, but she couldn't turn away because somehow, seeing Spencer engaged in what was clearly an intimate lip lock solidified her daughter's happiness, and honestly, that's exactly the kind of reaffirming Paula needed right then—it made the impending destruction, courtesy of her herself all the more grossly satisfying.

"Personal call: Line one," A squeaky voice blared, connecting Paula to her incoming call.

"Paula Carlin," she answered blandly.

"Mrs. Carlin,"

Now, Paula was interested—very interested.

"Aiden, how nice to hear from you. I assume you met with Ashley?"

"I did," he began wickedly, his inherent sleaziness oozing past Paula's receiver and gracefully curling itself into the crooks of her ear, "It seems our plans proceeding more admirably than either one of us could imagine—"

"Our plan?" Paula cut in coolly, her unspoken reprimand not wasted on her twenty-one year old counterpart.

"_Your_ plan—"

"Brilliant," Paula declared unscrupulously, basking in the warm welcoming emotion that seemed to wash over usually cold and livid body.

Someone once asked her why she did the things she does—Why she took such great pleasure in others pain. Her answer was simple: Eventually, you realize that money can't buy everything and that life, the once vibrant and unpredictable force, has lost its indescribable luster, leaving you broken and so incredibly alone. But then you find refuge and recreation in stealing that light from others—You find joy in making others miserable and suddenly, life becomes more livable.

"You know, we're going to break her, Paula," Aiden said slowly, meaningfully, "We're going to tear her a part,"

"It's Paula to you," she replied quietly.

And suddenly, in that instance, the venom in her voice rose to criminal levels as she delivered her next line—As she spoke her next words so calmly, so calculatingly, because she was so incredibly numb.

"I can hardly wait."

**pheeww--yet again, sorry for the delayed update. i hope you enjoyed (as much as you can enjoy paula being a frigid bitch) and as always please leave me some comments behind! it's not totally edited but i figured whoever was up could check it out and i could just edit as you guys read. with that said--sorry about any fault pronoun references or misplaced modifiers...there's only so much a senior english class can hammer into you at the end of the day. P.S-dont you love having MORE reasons to hate aiden?**


	11. Breathe

Chapter 11- Breathe

Anxiety can be defined as a feeling of worry or unease, typically about an imminent event or something with an uncertain outcome. Now, take this emotion, this complicated, enigmatic, smorgasbord of a feeling, and multiply it ten fold, being sure to envelope into its rocky depths a dash of insecurity of the most volatile variety and you have, concocted quite precisely, the exact emotion that careened through Spencer's nerve stricken veins as she sat timidly in the corner of Weston's Starbucks, idly nursing her second fresh cup of coffee in the last twenty minutes.

Today was a beginning—the beginning. Because today, after all, Ashley returned from her weeklong island adventure. It had been seven days—Seven long, uneventful, twenty-four hour stretches of agitated longing—Not that Spencer would have described it this way. No, left to her own devices, Ms. Carlin would've been sure to employ diction denoting anything but stir-crazy mind set that had quickly become her lifestyle. She would highlight the assortment of parties she attended, club's she frequented, and women she sweet talked, being sure to omit from her account of the week's events the times she left said attended parties, the number of club's she chose not to frequent, as well as the spectacular dullness of the women she courted, women who, sixteen short days ago, would've been granted the privilege of having their underwear hung from stakes of her four post bed.

No, Spencer Carlin was changing, and that week was indisputable proof of this. But, be sure, this is not to say she lost her edge.

"You're late."

"You're early."

"I'm on time," Spencer stated coolly, the playfulness of her tone not lost on Ashley, "Punctuality isn't your strong suit, is it, Ms. Davies?"

Ashley smiled, the corners of her mouth pulled genuinely into the honest grin Spencer hadn't even realized she'd missed, "Much like remaining in your vehicle when driving through a major intersection isn't yours, Ms. Carlin."

"Or, did I imagine that incident?" She continued, faking curiosity, "Did I dream that you ran across the street, dodged a speeding jeep, and then verbally, later physically may I add, assaulted me outside of my vehicle a week ago from today—"

"So, you're dreaming about me?" Spencer interjected smoothly, though she was, indeed, incredibly curious.

Ashley grinned, the bridge of her delicate nose crinkling in a way that made Spencer's heart melt like a bar of chocolate in the California sun, "Hardly."

_**asterickasterickasterickasterickasterickasterickasterickasterick**_

"So, was Nantucket as deliciously waspy as your remembered?" Spencer asked wickedly, tracing a finger idly around the rim of her just finished coffee.

Ashley had just finished ordering her drink, the neophyte who five days ago had had the unfortunate pleasure of fucking up Spencer's order actually whipping up Ashley's in record time, though Spencer's unnerving glare in his petrified direction probably had something to do with it.

"Please," Ashley sighed incredulously, "like the vineyard's any better."

"Besides," she continued, eyeing the expensive designer glasses perched on her perfectly kempt blonde head before allowing her gaze to descend, "You're about as waspy as they come."

Those last words left Ashley's lips more slowly than the others, her mouth not quite in sync with her eyes, the same ones burning not so innocent trails down Spencer's sexy conservatively clad exterior.

Ms. Carlin looked good.

Now, be sure, Spencer was no stranger to the lustful stare currently dancing its way across her physique, and, to be fair, the moment only lasted for a mere second, if even that, but there was something about the way Ashley was looking at her, something about the way her burnt mahogany orbs skated and skidded across her skin, caressing her in a way so intimate she felt her heart smolder, blurring the line between sexuality and tenderness.

Then it was over.

"And who ever said that was a bad thing?"

It was Spencer who spoke first, incredibly uneasy with the intense change of events, slipping Ashley out of her daze.

"No one," Ashley muttered awkwardly, devoting her once inappropriately aimed attention at divvying her morning croissant in two.

The air had changed—It was suddenly thicker and so incredibly dense. Spencer could feel the once playful banter that had, only moments ago enveloped them slipping away like a wet dog would through a child's eager fingers. She needed that.

"I missed you,"

This time it was Ashley who spoke, her voice soft and gentle, devoid of the sarcasm and playfulness usually characterizing it.

It wasn't much—As a matter of fact, it was only a simple and honest recognition of a week's worth of emotions composed and comprised into three incredibly simple and honest words, yet, the phrase so carried so much meaning on its small purposeful back, a sort of significance Spencer couldn't quite shrug off, that she had no other choice than to look it straight in the eye, much in the same way Ashley was looking at her.

"I mean, the daily events characteristic of life become a little less dull when devoid of half naked women sprinting across major streets in your direction," Ashley continued playfully, sensing the other girl's uneasiness with the intensity of the previous moment, "go figure, right?"

Spencer smiled, "I was not half naked,"

"You so were!"

"Please, it was a work out outfit," Spencer parried matter-of-factly, countering Ashley's unbelieving smirk with her playful one.

"You work out?" Ashley deadpanned before breaking out into a wicked smile, combing her memory for the countless instances in which Spencer was extremely after breath following little to no movement.

"Fuck you!"

Spencer's parry might have been more spiteful had she not been fighting so valiantly to mask the grin fighting its way past her pursed lips.

"You wish," Ashley spat wickedly.

The double meaning of the brunettes words were not lost on Spencer in the least, and as she leaned forward, closing the two foot gap that separated them, she let herself bask in the scent of citrus like ginger that seemed to radiate of the other girls skin before whispering cockily, "Please," Goosebumps rose like freckles across Ashley's heated skin, "When you're this good, you don't have to."

Ashley couldn't breathe—As a matter of fact, she couldn't think which probably made Spencer's next muttered words so surprising, "Go out with me tonight."

_**asterickasterickasterickasterickasterickasterickasterickasterick**_

Since Harvey's opening fifteen days ago, the two tiered night club had transformed itself into a glorified hot spot, the likes of which happened to attract such socialites as the two brunettes and blonde who graced the VIP section that Sunday night.

"Donny," Kate shouted, struggling to speak over the music before motioning a finger towards her empty glass.

Kate felt like a third wheel—A terribly welcomed yet still sufficiently unwanted third wheel. It was a strange emotion and one she hoped to never harbor for a long time.

"So…" Ashley tried, glancing at Kate awkwardly before letting her gaze shift comically to Spencer who sat on the other side of her best friend.

Yes, that's right—Kate was perched in the middle.

"This is nice," Spencer tried, nursing her tumble of Bailey's eagerly.

The tension was making her nervous—She needed to get drunk.

Just as Ashley and Kate were falling into some semblance of a normal conversation—after all, how ordinary can a verbal exchange be when the sexual tension between two girls is being awkwardly infiltrated by an unintentional cock block? Not very usual—Spencer felt a thin pair of arms snake their way around her waist, only to feel a husky voice buried in the crevice of her ear.

"Spencer Carlin," the girl began, "God, it's been too long."

Now, remember, in each and every one of Spencer's conquests she was always the user, the abuser, "the one who got away"—As a matter of fact, she made it her unfortunate but entirely necessary business to make sure each and every girl she bedded was aware of this increasingly important tid bit—In other words, Spencer called the shots. Keeping this in mind, whoever it was that had so rudely invaded her personal space, whatever one night stand's voice was richoetting between the walls of her ear drum, was incredibly out of line—So out of line, in fact, that it made Spencer snap.

"Don't touch me."

"But, I thought—" The girl stumbled over her words, nervous and flabbergasted, embarrassed and weirdly ashamed.

"Wrong," Spencer finished for her, downing the rest of her drink smoothly, "And I'm not interested."

In that moment and some how between Spencer telling of the random, she, for the life of her, couldn't remember and polishing off her fourth drink of the night, Ashley had sidled up to her, running her delicate hand down the other girls arm before lacing their fingers loosely, the intimacy of the touch not lost on either of them.

"And you are…" The other girl quipped, the odd traces of jealously laced into the fabric of her tone.

"Currently?" Ashley began, the beginnings of a wicked smirk playing its way across her lips, "Watching you play fruitlessly for a girl who's clearly not interested in you. In the next twenty seconds, however, I have every intention of removing you from my line of sight and getting to know Spencer here a little better on the dance floor."

Spencer was again impressed—Deliciously and quite brilliantly taken a back. It seemed no-name, the past benefactor of Spencer's late night affections, was as well as she opened and closed her mouth, clearly at a loss for any sort of come back.

Ashley only smiled and watched satisfactorily as the other girl slinked away, no doubt embarrassed or ashamed—most likely both.

"Ashley Davies," Spencer began incredulously.

"Dance with me."

It wasn't a question nor was it a request. No, this was a command and for once Spencer Carlin found herself taking orders.

Their movements began slowly, cautiously, as if both were testing the weight of the situation, abashedly checking the temperature of the water before jumping in. Then they were moving, molding, melting into one another, shifting with the bass, swaying with the harmony, fingers linked and arms entangled, Spencer's back pressed impossibly close to Ashley's front, the heat emanating from both their bodies almost stifling. The air was trapped in Spencer's lungs as she reached an arm back, allowing the tendrils of her fingers to get caught in the waves of Ashley's hair—She felt everything. The other girl's breath, short and ragged on her shoulder, her hand skidding lazily, wildly eagerly under the hem of shirt, mapping out the contours of her stomach. Everything burned deliciously—She was lost and, to be honest, she never knew it could feel this good. This was new—This was unexplored emotional terrain of the most untamed and intimidating variety and as she questioned taking a step back, as she pondered the safety of ending whatever this was right now, she felt Ashley's lips, soft and supple run along her earlobe, she felt her part the edges of her mouth bestowing upon her the one word she didn't know she needed to hear, the one syllable confection of a motto that kept her right there, smoldering in the heat that was Ashley.

It was a whisper that only she could hear.

"Breathe."


	12. Everyone Lies

Chapter 12- Everyone Lies

There are moments in life so significantly unlike any others—Rare and often times life altering points in our existence in which we can feel our racing blood halt, sense the unforgiving and unrelentless hands of time approach an indescribable sort of standstill, sucking out the life we didn't know we depended on—You can't breathe, but you're not even aware of this inherent fact. See, you're stuck on empty because right then, in those seconds in which you can feel every single thing you've grown accustomed to changing, something snaps deep within the core of your being, rendering you a numbed super human, ethereal version of your former self—The whole process is terribly frightening.

The night before _wasn't_ of those moments—Not to say it wasn't terribly intense, because it was—It really, really was. Alas, Ashley hadn't spent the night with Spencer (a sleepover which might've qualified the girls for aforementioned moment), a fact proving only surprising to Kate, who had, of course, witnessed the entire erotic event that was the two girls on the dance floor. Now, be sure, Kate wasn't the only one to take notice. As a matter of fact, it was Donny, dear Donald, mouth agape and eyes wide, who absent mindedly doused the entirety of his favorite white t-shirt with a fourteen hundred dollar handle of rum while distractedly drinking in the sexual enigma taking place before his very eyes. There was something about them—Something in the way they moved, in the way their bodies melded into one another, rendering it near impossible to tell where one ended and one began—It was breathtakingly beautiful. Alas, the intensity of the moment, and of the next three songs, proved too taxing for both girls, thus sending them on their separate ways to their separate beds. It's important to remember, however, that more than one heart had stopped beating in those slow burning minutes. As a matter of fact, had someone, for one reason or another, pressed a sthethoscope against their gridlocked chests they would have found that each rose and fell in sync with one another to neither of their knowledge. As Ashley lay, sprawled haphazardly across the oleander valley of her bed, she allowed herself to bask in the pleasant exhaustion precipitated from the night before, though she couldn't help the irritating nagging feeling picking at the edges of her happiness, silently nudging her towards the point of frustration.

"Coffee?"

Ashley wrestled with the top of her duvet only to reveal Kate, holding out a piping white mug of coffee as if doing so was some sort of sacred peace offering.

"Thanks?"

"No problem," Kate said smiling slightly as she settled onto the edge of what was, two weeks ago, her guest bed.

There was something sort of pained about the expression she wore on her face, as if every molecule of her being had not too long ago been contorted in deep thought.

"Penny for 'em," Ashley asked carefully, nursing the hot mug of coffee cautiously as she eyed her cousin from above its rim.

"What do you see in her?"

And there it was, the elephant that had been lounging in the corner of Kate's room, out in the open like a red, pulsating, sore thumb.

Ashley choked momentarily, the results of which could be seen on her once clean white t-shirt and equally spotless bedspread.

"Kate—"

"No, listen,"

Deep breath.

"She's my best friend and she's honestly like a sister to me. Not to say that I don't love you, because I do. Just—" Kate paused, taking a moment to weigh the affect of her next words, "know she's what you want becau—"

"Why?"

Ashley's query hung in the air like an anvil and Kate couldn't help the glare she shot in her direction as she allowed the brashness of Ashley's interjection to seep in.

"I have a Pilates group at noon," She stated, voice frigid, as she shifted her weight off the bed and onto her feet, "I should get going,"

Just as the tip of her forefinger grazed the cold brass of the door handle, she heard her cousin's voice infiltrate the thick with tension silence that had, only seconds ago, permeated the atmosphere.

"She's damaged, I know that. She is cold and insatiable. And looking ahead to the best of my ability, she'll most likely be painfully bored with my presence by the middle of next week," Ashley admitted heavily, steeling herself for her next words, "But, for right now and despite the inevitable, not going off of what I know, but really only banking on what I feel,"

Deep breath.

"She's totally worth it."

Releasing the breath she hadn't been aware she was holding, Kate stepped through the threshold separating Ashley's room from the rest of the loft, her feet heavy with an emotion she couldn't yet place.

"Don't worry about me,"

It was a simple request and one that almost, the operative term being almost, made Kate smile. However, in that moment, she found herself overcome with a bitter kind of sadness—The type characteristic of a situation in which one knows and is quite painfully aware of an impending outcome, yet can't, for reasons that inevitably differ, do much about it.

As the next six words tumbled past and out Kate's lips, she felt that sadness come full circle, "It's not you I'm worried about."

_**asterickasterickasterickasterickasterickasterick**_

Spencer was sexually exasperated. A fact she had, on her own, attempted to correct twice. The truth was, her hand wasn't nearly as satisfying as a hot deliciously, pouty mouth—The likes of which could be found just ten minutes away, lounging, no doubt, in her best friend's decadent guest room.

Just as she was well on her way to completing attempt number three: Operation Masturbation, she felt the all too familiar, and increasingly annoying, vibrating of her blackberry, and stilled the hand buried in the depths of her boxers briefly as she answered her phone with the other.

"Hello?"

"Hey…"

It was Ashley.

"Hey," Spencer replied quickly—Too quickly. As a matter of fact, her record time response, paired with the wide grin that, like a chemical reaction catalyzed by Ashley's voice, had spread across her face, caused her to jump slightly, a movement which inevitably jerked the arm connected to the hand whose nimble fingers were tucked deep inside the hot depths of her slit now aching slit.

She couldn't help it—The sudden movement wasn't something she had accounted for.

Spencer groaned.

More specifically her face contorted into an accurate replica of an impending orgasm, complete with a trembling lower lip, lidded eyes, and a far too satisfied sigh.

"Are you okay?"

_Ashley._ She'd forgotten about Ashley.

"Spencer—"

"Yeah, sorry," Spencer interjected quickly, grimacing comically (well, comically for us, not so comically for her) as she pulled her hand out of her underwear entirely, "Bumped into my end table,"

"Your end table?"

"Yes. My end table."

"Do you even _have_ an end table?" Ashley asked, her suspiciousness leaking through the receiver.

"Did you even _cal_ for a reason?" Spencer parried, suddenly incredibly annoyed.

Had she and Ashley been in the same room, she might've caught the other girl's rolling eyes—Alas, they were not.

"Besides," She smiled wickedly, "It's not like you've ever seen the inside of my room—or my apartment, for that matter.

"True…" Ashley grinned slowly, "Pity, too. I've always wanted wondered how wealthy bachelorette with far too much time on her hands would go about decorating said bacholorette pad."

"Really?"

"Truly."

"Well," Spencer began as if deep in thought, "given that it's a Monday, and my current Tuesday, who as of last week become my Monday was regrettably roped into attending her grandmother's funeral…"

"God bless her soul,"

"I suppose I can pencil you in,"

"Brilliant," Ashley grinned, absent mindedly tracing shapes into the pillow by her head, "Is seven okay?"

"Yeah, that's great," Spencer confirmed genuinely.

"Oh, and Ashley?" She continued, her tone now taking on a more wicked likeness as she pressed her legs together chastely, "Bring something comfortable to sleep in."

With that, she hung up, leaving Ashley to toy with the not so subtle innuendo of her words, the dial tone playing like a brooding mans symphony in the backdrop.

_**asterickasterickaterickasterickastierickasterick**_

_Ashley was drunk—And not, four beers and a shot of whiskey inebriated—No, Ashley Davies was quite positively shit faced, a fact made clearly indisputable as she stumbled her way through and past her father's New York city apartment bell boy, momentarily forgetting the delicate olive hand grasped in her own and the quickening pulse she felt there. As she pulled the giggling girl into the elevator, absent mindedly signaling the floor she wished to frequent, Ashley pushed down whatever semblance of nervousness she felt nearly racking her body, drowning her senses in a sloppy kiss, though it truly was the best she could manage at the time._

Everyone has secrets.

_Her skirt was at her ankles now, a matching black bra and underwear clothing her otherwise naked body. As Ashley felt the clasp of the aforementioned article loosen, as she noted the awkwardly tingling sensation precipitated by the hot mouth gnawing wantonly on her shoulder, she realized the window was open, no doubt ushering in February's notorious winter chill. Courtesy of the peppermint schnapps she had entertained earlier, she didn't feel cold._

Everyone lies.

_Strangled pants stabbed the dank room like a metronome would silence, egging Ashley on, goading her hands to places they'd never been. Then she felt it—an unfamiliar pressure on her hips, a pair of nimble fingers working their ways into the handles of her underwear, goading them down. And now, Ashley was stock still—Paralyzed by a sensation that had, unbeknownst to her, crept its way through her entire limpid body. She couldn't—Not like this._

_Not now._

"_Stop…"_

_She felt the entirely too dry cotton material skid across the apex of her thighs._

"_Please,"_

_Her voice was barely above a whisper now as she began to feel her body shake._

"Stop."

_It was one word, but on its back it carried everything it was supposed to and a little bit more. Suddenly, the distribution of weight on her plush mattress was shifting. Ashley could feel everything—Anger, hurt, betrayal, and confusion._

_The half clothed figure that had, only moments ago, been pressed up against her was moved towards the door backwards, her eyes the only stationary facet of her person clouded and murky—So unreadable._

_Ashley called out to her through choked sobs and strangled tears._

_Nothing._

_She felt her heart breaking._

"_**Madison…"**_

"…So nice to meet you,"

Ms. Duarte smiled, the wickedness manifested in that simple gesture almost stifling, "Please, Mrs. Carlin," She began sweetly, the tone of her voice so decadent it almost bordered a kind of bitterness, "the pleasure is all mine."

**as always, thanks for reading and please leave me some feedback:) lurkers: stop lurking. lurking's lame. **

**the description in the first paragraph isn't totally random! it'll come into play...**


	13. 141,776

Chapter 13- 141,776

"So…"

"So what?"

This had been the basis of Spencer and Kate's mid morning exchange for three hours now and the latter was growing severely impatient.

"So," Kate began irritatably, for what she was sure was the sixteenth time since the induction of their circuitous conversation, "How was dinner?"

Dinner—That had been the much preferred topic of conversation for hours now, though, much to Kate's chagrin, Spencer seemed to somehow cleverly maneuver her way around the subject, instead focusing on such uninteresting and mundane trifles like sports, which neither of the girls watched, boys, a theme only Kate seemed to find fraught with substance though, it should be noted, a topic far from her mind that day, and Paula—Yes, Spencer had even ventured to discuss her parasitic like mother in a futile, yet much enjoyable effort, to deter Kate from the information she seeked so persistently.

"Dinner?" She joked easily, a smile pulling at the corners of her lips. Had Kate been watching her more closely, she may have noticed the tautness of her jaw as she said this, the speck of an exhausted pink in her far too made up eyes as Spencer, for the third time that morning, perused the menu at Gregory's, an action which might've been borderline acceptable had she not been ordering the same thing for seven years now. Yes, if Kate had been paying more attention, if she hadn't been so invested in her own quaking curiosity, in her own second hand fears, she might have noted how the grin her best friend was sporting was so incredibly plastic, so incredibly fake—in a way, so broken. But Kate wasn't paying attention—See, Kate wasn't all there—But then again, neither was Spencer. They were both in two very different and distinct places and even though their anxious hands were inches a part, their tired minds were miles away.

_**asterickasterickasterickasterickasterick**_

"_You did all this?" Ashley asked slowly, almost cautiously, as she maneuvered her way through and across Spencer's foyer to the dimly lit dining room where the other girl stood waiting._

_Ashley was impressed and rightly so—After all, Spencer's loft was a scene of unadulterated romanticism. It was evident in the abandoned light fixtures, each of which was replaced with a slow burning candle, apparent in the missing center pieces, Spencer's dining room table now doused with a vat of white rose petals. The only facet missing might have been a soft Kenny G record serenading the moment in the background, but that also might've been considered cheesy and Spencer Carlin was not, by any means, cheesy._

"_No…" Spencer answered, matching Ashley's careful vocal pace as she poured them both a glass of wine, "Preston did all of this," She admitted easily, "I got a manicure," She finished, a playful smirk playing across her wickedly attractive features._

_Ashley, unbeknownst to Spencer, released the breath she hadn't been aware she was holding, the small remnants of a genuine smile dolefully falling from the turned corners of her lips. See, Ms. Davies had, if only for a fraction of a moment, been wildly impressed, quite refreshingly taken aback, so much so she had sworn she could see the small spores of change in Spencer, the small traces of difference she was sure were there. __Yet, there was something about the other girls' admission that unsettled her, that petulantly tugged on edges of her sane mind, making her wonder just how many others had found themselves with Spencer in this same situation--serenaded by the crackling of candle light, overtaken by the essence of rose petals.__ Now, be sure, Ashley Davies was not the jealous type. As a matter of fact, she prided herself on her acquired indifference, her uncanny ability to so skillfully not care and project that mindset towards anyone who came in contact with her. Not to say Ashley was cold, because she wasn't. She was warm—in comparison to Spencer, one might even say scalding—Still, like any twenty-something with too much money, too many brains, and too much time, she fashioned and erected certain walls around herself, but something about Spencer—Something about dangerous, wild, calmly collected, and wickedly provocative Spencer, scared her, made her scurry into her fortitudes like a gerbil would when approached by a giant, encouraging her to do what she did best, coaxing her towards their acquired normalcy which was, you must understand, a step back, and not a step forward—ironic, considering that was exactly what that night was supposed to be._

"_Charming," Ashley parried smoothly, her voice carrying a kind of indistinguishable like coldness Spencer hadn't heard before, a sort of distant quality that rendered her cautious in terms of how to react._

"_I like to think so," The words were even but tentative, offering within themselves a chance for Ashley to take, whatever it is she was going to say, back, to correct whatever it was that had gone wrong._

_She didn't._

"_And Preston is?" Ashley queried coolly, thumbing the aged French dining table that lay adjacent between them carefully, the patch of wood she was currently inspecting the same spot Catherine Sargent had been spread eagle on only weeks before, "I mean, you, Ms. Carlin, just never struck me as the kind of woman to keep a man around."_

_There was something about the way those words rolled off of Ashley's tongue, hanging in the few centimeters of a medium separating them—An air of challenge, an assumption of omniscience, as if the girl had unearthed some well kept secret, excavated a telling fragment of the past. Whatever it was, Spencer found it all too disconcerting and the sudden change in mood precipitated by the brunette earlier had slowly, but surely, dripped its way into Spencer's atmosphere and suddenly the tension increased ten fold. _

"_Brilliant observation," She countered smoothly, a sort of dangerous wickedness in her tone as she took a slow and even sip of wine, the pupils of her eyes never abandoning Ashley's, "I'm not."_

"_So, then, you must find…." Ashley's voice petered out now, her meandering nature having led her to a one of kind Kenyan artifact hanging proudly over Spencer's mantle, "Preston, is it?" The question was rhetorical, "Wildly unthreatening,"_

"_Wildly?" Spencer considered, testing the weight of Ashley's diction, "Of the over 141, 776 words in the English vocabulary, why 'wildly'?"_

_She really was curious. _

"_Please," Ashley cut in sharply, finally turning to face the other girl, "You let him through your front door with no hope of sexual potential," Ashley's voice lowered now, every word, each solitary syllable, stabbing the five feet of silence between them, "He must be wildly unthreatening," She reasoned before casually continuing, "My guess? Painfully selfless, suspiciously devoted, in a stable relationship, incredibly unattractive—"_

"_In a word, everything I'm not?" the words cut like a sharpened knife through the gelatinous tension enveloping them, "Close," Spencer admitted, her voice colder than fresh ice, "He's handsome. And gay."_

_Silence permeated the next few seconds, each seeming to pass at a sort of slow burning sultry pace as Ashley moved steadily towards Spencer, each girls' gaze trained towards the other, their eyes glowing like hot coals as the light bouncing off and on the melting candles, skidded across their otherwise indistinguishable faces._

_Ashley spoke first._

"_You know what I think?"_

_The five feet between them became four._

"_What?"_

_Then inched its way towards three._

"_You find me unthreatening,"_

_Three inched its way down to two._

"_I do,"_

_Spencer was smiling wickedly now even as the two feet separating them became the thinnest of centimeters, even as their eyes bore searing holes into one another, each alight with a sort of mysterious blaze._

"_Spencer?"_

_Their noses were touching now._

"_What, Ashley?"_

"_**You're wrong."**_


	14. Honest

_Chapter 14- Honest_

_The appetizer came and went smoothly without the utterance of a single syllable on both Spencer and Ashley's parts. It seemed the earlier scene in the dining room had rendered them both eerily silent, neither wanting to speak in understandable fear she might say something she'd eventually regret. Only when Preston, who, for the record, was not at all interested in Spencer but merely regarded her as the fatefully beautiful yet addictively insufferable younger sister he always lacked, presented them with the main course, the ominous clinking of dishes reverberating through their self-imposed silence, did Ashley venture to speak._

"_So, I take it the Carlin's aren't photogenic?"_

_It wasn't much, but it was the best she could at the time._

"_And why would you say that?" Spencer's queried evenly, not willing herself to engage in overly civil conduct with the other girl just yet—She was pissed. Or better yet, annoyed. Regardless, Spencer entertained bullshit on her own terms, and Ashley's little scene before had been not only disconcerting, but also unplanned for—It made her incredibly nervous. _

"_You just don't have any pictures of your family up—"_

"_Why would I?"_

_It wasn't harsh or bitter or caustic. No, the quality of Spencer's outburst just then could only be described as unadulterated honesty, perhaps even too honest given the nature of the situation she found herself in. Remember, Spencer Carlin was not an open book by any means—As a matter of fact, she was one thick volume after another in a train of encyclopedias, dusty, dirty, and buried with no desire to be found. Besides, Ashley had met the Carlin's. Would you want a portrait of Paula hanging off your mantle piece, lit by the fingers of crackling fire as you ate your dinner? I didn't think so._

"_I don't know…I just—"_

"_It's fine—"_

"_No," Ashley said suddenly, meaningfully, disallowing whatever conversational detour Spencer had planned to lead them down, "I mean…what did you do in that house all those years?"_

_It was raw and unassuming—Neither bitter nor harsh nor caustic. Spencer hadn't heard someone speak to her in that manner for years—It caught her off guard. _

"_Lived, I guess," Spencer offered nervously, self consciously, not allowing her quaking nerves to betray her, though secretly, she wondered herself. A century upon a decade was spent in the expansive dungeon that was the Carlin mansion and past a certain point, Spencer couldn't quite remember how she'd survived the emotional torture defining her early adolescence. Truth be told, certain instances of her stay had been blocked and blotched out, the least offensive of this number only existing in the abandoned cupboards of her mind. There were parts of her childhood so vivid, she could still taste the metallic traces of bile so aptly depicting Christmas's spent in their great room, so cleverly portraying the searing stares of her brothers, the insinuating comments from her mother, even the honest, removed indifference emanating off her father. She thought of it as a special brand of revenge that she'd made it out of there alive—Almost as if her life was one perpetual slap in the face, a single reminder of their greatest failure—It didn't upset her—It made her stronger, and this notion was enough to keep her going._

"_Spencer—" _

"_Ashley," Spencer responded evenly, matching Ashley's tone._

"_You can talk to me—"_

"_I don't know you,"_

_And there it was, out and on the table like the Las Vegas prostitute Spencer had made love to in her parents dining room, the solitary entity pushing them apart—not a surplus of overwrought, unexpressed adolescent emotion, but rather a lack concrete emotional and factual knowledge. It seemed as if they had climbed half way up the pyramid, not realizing the base of the thing never existed._

"_I don't know anything about you."_

"_Well," Ashley began carefully, tucking a loose curl of hair behind her ear, "I lived in the city until I was five, then my dad, after selling some outrageous sum of stock, moved us out of the city and into the country—_

"_Greenwich," Spencer added._

"_Yeah, Greenwich," She confirmed, "And I guess I've lived there ever since,"_

"_Siblings?"_

_Ashley laughed softly, meeting Spencer's comfortable gaze soft smirk before answering, "Yeah, actually. A younger sister—Kyla. She just graduated from Andover at the top of her class,"_

"_Did she like it?"_

"_Do you care?"_

_Touché, Ms. Davies._

"_What keeps you up at night?" This time it was Spencer who spoke though her voice couldn't have been above a low whisper. She wasn't being nosy or imposing or rude—No, the seriousness of this most recent turn of events was surprisingly comfortable for both of them. _

"_Honestly?"_

"_Honestly,"_

"_The fear of not having anyone to take care of,"_

_Ashley only saw Spencer smile—She couldn't have felt her heart stop—She couldn't have known Spencer had a fear of being alone._

"Then what happened?" Kevin asked slowly, eyeing Ashley's sullen form where it lay splayed stiffly on his patients' couch.

"Nothing…"

"Nothing?"

Ashley sighed, "No…Not nothing,"

"Then something?"

Her breathing had become oddly distant, "No," She admitted, "Everything,"

"_Your dad sounds like an asshole,"_

"_He's not," Ashley admitted quickly, "He's just…", She struggled for a moment to find the perfect word, "Driven,"_

"_Driven enough to miss his daughters high school graduation for a company luncheon?" Spencer asked rhetorically, "Spells asshole for me,"_

"_And I take it your parents showed up for your high school graduation?" Ashley asked playfully, leaning over the railing of Spencer's balcony towards Weston's bright lights before shooting her a challenging glance._

"_Please," Spencer scoffed, "The whole family tree showed up to watch me snag my diploma," She continued teasingly, "Half of them wanted pictorial proof I'd actually made it—"_

"_And the other half?"_

"_Wanted to know if I was actually sleeping with the associate Headmaster,"_

"_Endearing, Spencer,"_

"_I always have been," Spencer smiled, meeting Ashley's smirk, "Are you cold?"_

_Somehow, between dessert and Preston's timely departure (timely because, for awhile now, Ashley had been hoping to get Spencer alone), the girl's had ventured out and onto Spencer's balcony, the delicious consistency of their conversation never shifting even as their surroundings did._

"_No, I'm good," Ashley replied sweetly, noting the relaxedness of Spencer's jaw as she spoke, how she so uncharacteristically looked at peace—It was oddly heartbreaking._

"_So, what about you?" Spencer began wickedly, though there was a gentle playfulness to her tone Ashley _did _find endearing, "Any tales of sexual deviancy?" She smiled, cocking an eyebrow suggestively, "Bouts of high school scandal?"_

"_No," Ashley laughed, smirking at Spencer's expectantly contorted face, "Virgin, remember?" _

"_Oh, yes"_

"_Oh, yes?"_

"_Yes?"_

"_And I should interpret 'Oh, yes,' to mean?"_

"_Interpret it anyway you like," _

"_Spencer…"_

"_Ashley…" Spencer replied, meeting Ashley's suspicious gaze with a smirk, "I just don't think you're truly a virgin," She admitted, "I think you're hiding something,"_

"_Hiding what?" _

_Ashley spoke too quickly and Spencer noticed._

"_I don't know…" She answered honestly, looking out into the distant Weston where the remnants of her heart belonged, "But nothing's as it seems," She said simply, "Nothing."_

"Ashley…" Kevin tried, struggling fruitlessly to nudge the girl out of whatever memory had encapsulated her. She looked so tired, so spent, so unlike any version of the girl he'd met in their thirteen year past. But still, she seemed so oddly alive, like some sort of life torch had been lit deep in the depths of her soul in a place only she knew—As if she had discovered a secret, _the_ secret—As if she was free.

"Ashley…"

"Yeah?"

"You stopped breathing there for a second,"

Ashley laughed softly, unconsciously tracing the bay leaf paisley pattern tattooing Kevin's couch—It felt as if she hadn't breathed in years.

"_Truth or dare?"_

"_Seriously,"_

"_Seriously," Ashley laughed, leaning her head back and against the metal railing of Spencer's balcony. They'd been outside for nearly two hours now, side by side, shoulder to shoulder, with only the moonlight and an occasional car honk serenading their easy conversation—That's exactly what it was—Easy. As a matter of fact, not a single awkward silence had manifested itself since the episode in the dining room, so much so that the tension characterizing the aftermath of the situation seemed to have dissipated, leaving in its wake the sort of social comfort only found amongst the closest of friends, the most intimate of allies. Even Spencer had seemed to forget herself._

"_Truth," Spencer said, refilling their continually empty glasses of wine._

"_Why are you such an ass to everyone but Kate?" Ashley asked honestly, genuinely curious as to Spencer's response._

"_I'm not an ass to everyone but Kate," She argued playfully, "Just every girl but Kate," She corrected, "I'm not interested enough in men to be an ass to them,"_

"_Still—"_

"_Still what?"_

"_Like that's any better?"_

"_It's not," Spencer admitted, not bothering to turn towards Ashley—Suddenly, she was in her own world, "I know it's not," She continued, her voice heavy with honesty, "But maybe they deserve it."_

"_Deserve what?" Ashley countered meaningfully._

_Spencer laughed, suddenly very much aware of what she'd almost let slip "That's another question," She answered, "Besides," She continued easily, smirking playfully at the other girl "It's my turn."_

"_Truth or dare?"_

"_Truth,"_

"_What really brought you to Weston?" Spencer inquired seriously. She wasn't so disillusioned to believe Ashley's initial visit was really the simply the by-product of her missing her Massachusetts cousin. As a matter of fact, Spencer had the fleck of a feeling Ashley's arrival in town was much more intricate than that. Paranoia or not, she was interested._

"_I was bored," Ashley muttered thoughtfully, tucking a stray wisp of hair behind her ear._

"_With what—"_

"_Life," Ashley half-lied effortlessly, feeling the beginnings of regret crawling up the chambers of her soul._

_Had Spencer's mind been even an inch closer to the ground, she might've heard it, but, as it was, her head was miles away, "I don't know what you mean,"_

_Ashley breathed slowly, glancing thoughtfully at Spencer's figure, sensing the heartbeat of an entity so akin to her own, "No," she confessed, "I think you do."_

"How long were you two out there?" Kevin asked softly, not willing his voice to rise above a whisper for fear it might break. He had made it a rule long ago to not invest himself emotionally in any of his patient's lives, but there was something about Ashley's recount that made his heart break.

"Long enough,"

"Long enough to what?"

"_Kiss me,"_

_Spencer did not need to be told twice._

_They were on her bed now—When or how they had gotten there a mystery as intricate as the enigma surrounding the Bermuda triangle, both of which would most likely never be solved. As a matter of fact, it was their seemingly tame game of truth or dare that had led them here, manifesting itself into a competition of the most dangerous variety, the sort placing Spencer, perpetually horny Spencer, hovering a hair of a centimeter above Ashley, who, for the record, was just as invested in finishing their game as Spencer was._

"_Truth or dare, Ashley,"_

"_Truth,"_

"_What are you waiting for?"_

_You might've heard a pin drop, may have sensed Oscar (Spencer's Jack Russell Terrier) padding along the wooden hallways of their living room, searching for the toy he knew he left there._

"_No one,"_

_Freudian slip?_

_Spencer felt the boa constrictor she, since Ashley, knew so well, begin its work. She was suddenly emotionless—Removed._

"_I didn't ask who."_


	15. Blessing

Chapter 15- Blessing

"Spencer…Spence!?"

"What!?" Spencer snapped, grudgingly shifting her curdled attention from the milkshake she had been, quite pathetically, nursing for the past hour. She was pissed—Or better yet indescribably confused—this emotion, in compliance with others, manifesting itself into the sort of unimaginable livid like tension that seemed to be permeating from every square centimeter of her skin. But then again, why wouldn't she be angry? Why shouldn't she be pissed? After all, Ashley had, in her mind, tricked her—deceived her—For lack of a better word, _bamboozled_ her, to what end still an integral question up for debate. However, one thing was inarguably clear in Spencer's mile a minute, partially deluded mind: She was unraveling like a skein of thread rolling down the biggest and most crag infested of hills, its rocky bottom, even now, within plain sight.

"Pills…" Spencer muttered, more to herself than to Kate as she bent over to grab her purse, filtering desperately through the cornucopia of unimportant trifles she found there. She needed those pills, "Fuck…"

"Spencer?"

"What!?" She hadn't meant for it come out so rudely, hadn't intended for her voice to sound so unfamiliarly callous, but right now she didn't care—She couldn't—She needed those…

"Pills," Kate muttered, roughly sliding the small bottle of spare white capsules she had, since Spencer's eighteenth birthday, learned to keep on hand, "Pills."

Silence reigned, neither girl bothering to steal her stony, empty gaze from the plastic cylindrical tumbler lying on the wooden table top between them. As Spencer wielded it open, swallowing a good portion of the contents she found there, Kate watched helplessly, dolefully wondering when exactly it was those white, elliptical tablets had become her girl's lifeline.

_**asterickasterickasterickasterickasterickasterick**_

"Mother,"

"Spencer,"

It was Tuesday, which meant one thing—Mother/ Daughter brunch. Under any other set of circumstances, Spencer might've cancelled, calling upon her library of lame, contrite excuses if only to free herself from their painfully adhered to weekly tradition. Alas, Paula had been uncharacteristically persistent, and, curious as to her mother's surely ill conceived good nature, Spencer beseeched her, figuring she could find some kind of sick, redemptive gratification, in shooting her mother's pleasant disposition down, filing this under the true few pleasures in life.

"I'm so glad you could make it, sweetheart,"

"As am I, mother," Spencer replied sweetly, pausing briefly to revel Paula in the smirk of pure bitter decadence she reserved only for those hallmark occasions, "I figured poor old Ms. Prudence at the local nursing home could spoon feed herself for one afternoon," She began, her demeanor and tone a flawless imitation of genuine sincerity, "But God knows Mr. Wilson will be devastated by my absence at the local croquet match. I mean, mother," She continued, her voice barely above a heartfelt whisper, "He doesn't deserve any more disappointments in his life,"

"You always were the giver, weren't you?" Paula countered sweetly, not bothered to seriously entertain Spencer's whimsical, though admittedly clever, sarcasm just then.

"It's true," Spencer parried, "Though I suppose that would leave one to conclude that the apple really _does_ fall far from the tree."

Clever. Always clever.

"Spencer—"

"Mother?" It was said with such an unassuming innocence, such a child like candor—Such a dark, manipulative kind of human understanding that, truth be told, the whole nature of their exchange really was making Spencer feel better. There was something about smiting Paula so exactly, using intelligence as a tool, that lifted Spencer—that made her high, and right then, she was fucking blazed.

"As I'm sure you concluded from our earlier exchange on the phone, there's a matter I'd like to discuss with you,"

"And this matter would be—?"

"Ashley."

Buzz kill.

"And what matter concerning Ashley were you so eager to discuss?" Spencer queried evenly, not willing her voice to tremble as she took a slow and even sip of wine.

This was unexpected—Altogether, incredibly unplanned for.

"Well, as I, and the rest of family was able to surmise from the other weeks," She paused here, "_intimate_ kitchen display, not to mention the all too vivid highway debacle—"

"Ah, yes," Spencer interjected knowingly, rolling her eyes in faux contempt, "Pity the camera didn't get my best angle,"

"Please," Paula involuntarily spat, smiling sweetly to correct for her out of form mistake, "You looked gorgeous—"

"Gorgeous?"

"Brilliant,"

"Brilliant?"

"Yes," Paula continued evenly, pausing momentarily to slide a fork of steak past her lips—Spencer always considered it telling that her mother preferred her meat cooked rare, "Brilliant. However, as I was saying, its become undeniably clear that you two are quite serious,"

Spencer said nothing—she knew her mother all to well. For now, the safest route was to let her continue talking, allowing whatever fucked up logic was unfurling in the webbed depths of her head to flesh itself out.

"And as such, me and your father,"

Here it was.

"…Would like to officially offer you,"

This should be good.

"…Our blessing."

_What_?

"Excuse me?"

It wasn't so much a question, as a guttural kind of natural response.

"Spencer, this…" Paula began in seemingly sincerity, "familial sparring has been carrying on for too long," She admitted quietly, leaning forward to where Spencer was mentally gawking, before encasing her daughters cold hand in her own, "I think it's finally time for us to be a family,"

Family. That word had once carried on its back every positive connotation of love known to man—It had been sacred, hallowed, special in every way, because to Spencer, it was so unfamiliar. She had never been family—At least not in the way that Paula described and as devastating as it might sound, she knew she never would be.

"Cut the shit, Paula,"

It was raw.

"What do you want?"

Paula leaned back in her wicker chair now, surveying the expanse of golf fields blanketing the Country Club's distance, "I want _you_, Spencer," She sighed honestly, "We want you back,"

_**asterickasterickasterickasterickasterickasterickasterick**_

One potato, two potato, three potato, four; Four potato, five potato, seven potato—

"How many potatoes did you say again?"

"Eight," Kate whined for fourth time, propping her heavy mind (which translated into a heavy head) on her kitchen island, "Why are you here again?" She asked.

"Because Spencer," Preston quipped, adding a dash of salt to the boiling pot, "And that fucking vixen of hers," He added, adjusting the calibration of the beef fraught oven, "Need an intervention,"

"No," Kate began passionately, "What they need to be is apart—"

"Bullshit! Those two were fucking _made_ for each other,"

"And how would you know?"

Preston cocked an eyebrow inquisitively, toning his usually playful demeanor down to one of serious understanding, "Have you seen the way they look at each other?"

"Please," Kate spat.

"Fine, then the way they _talk_ to one another. Everything's just so…heavy around them, you know? Thick. But, it's like, when they're talking to each other, it all takes on a kind of lightness—Spencer's never been like that before,"

It was true, and the inarguable fact surrounding Preston's insights was weighing down Kate's conscience.

"And you get this all from serving them a shitty pot roast?" She joked lightly.

"Please," Preston quipped, smiling cockily as he took the pot of potatoes off the stove, "I was eaves dropping around the corner the entire time."

Classy.

"Oh, by the way, I asked a good friend of mine whose in town right now to—"

Doorbell.

"—Stop by,"

"Brilliant timing," Kate smirked, pulling herself up and off the marble island as she made her way through the foyer and to her front door.

The girl was pretty—scratch that—fucking _gorgeous_.

"Hi!" She began sweetly, slipping a lock of her milky espresso brown hair behind an ear, "Preston told me to stop by,"

"Hey," Kate laughed, "Yeah, he told me, please, come in," She continued, ushering the girl through the door, "I'm Kate by the way,"

"Nice to meet you, Kate. My name's Madison."

**As always, lurkers are lame, so please, leave me some feedback behind. Thanks for reading ******


	16. Filler: The Seeds Had Been Sown

_**i totally heard what you were saying if, in feedback, you commented on the fic getting a little, if not too, confusing. So, as such, I wrote a sort've invisible filler (invisible because it's not actually apart of the action) filler. It even sort've led me in a better new directin—regardless, I hope this semi-tied up any loose ends if not highlighted them. **_

Twenty-two days—That's how long it had been since Spencer's twentieth birthday, since the scene in Spencer's (or was it Kate's?) car in the Harvey's parking lot, since, well—Ashley. To say that life in the aftermath of her arrival was simple would be equivalent to telling the most vile, factually disputable of lies, because let's be honest—Now, life was _anything _but simple. It was maddening—Confusing—So incredibly enigmatic and racing, you could hardly pinch its fleeting edges between the rolling peaks of your fingertips before it would slip through and past your hands again—No one was untouched—Not even Paula. It seemed she, since her daughters two decade celebration, had turned a new leaf, thus leaving one to wonder as to the true implications and machinations of her previous conversation with Aiden, her most recent with Madison, and whether those plans then made still stood. Kate was, well—Kate. Kind, caring, cautious, nervous, and incredibly indecisive to the point of self-imposed inadequacy—She was unfurling, stuck between a rock and a hard place, balancing the south and north poles of life: Friend and family. Aiden, the past-described first and last male conquest of Spencer's childhood, lurked shadowed in the background, his arrival in Weston not yet even a blip on Spencer's social radar. Nor was Madison, the infamous (infamous to me, not yet infamous to you) Ms. Duarte's—But then, why would she be? Spencer had yet to meet her and as such her existence sat at the pinnacle of unimportance. But, Ashley knew her—As a matter of fact, Ashley knew Madison in the most intimate of ways. They were in love—Two gorgeous, head strong girls basking in the sun of a Puerto Rican summer, neither then so much as assuming their romance would blossom into the two year love it then became. But then again, _nothing is as it seems_—A phrase, a sort of mantra, that you, the reader, should press, hold, and play on repeat for the remainder of this story, because I can't begin to convey to you those five words' indisputable truths. For now, Ashley remained in Weston, a not so welcome guest in Kate's loft; Spencer residing twenty futile minutes away, spinning, surviving in the ways she understood how—They were the ying to the other's yang, the butter to the others toast, the aged love your grandparents swear doesn't exist anymore— Everything about these girls fit and melded into one another in the tightest and most intimate of ways possible, even if they themselves had yet to decipher this epic fact. Whether or not they chose to embark on that journey towards one another was a choice all their own, but one thing is for certain— the seeds have been sown.


	17. Fuck

Chapter: Fuck

"And what the _fuck_ is that supposed to mean?"

Spencer was pissed—No, scratch that—fucking _livid_. In light of Paula's indecent if not unsuspected admission, she had ventured out and to the only soul she imagined she could trust with such delicate and emotionally fraught information—Martha.

"I think it means they want you back—"

"Well, I'd like to reclaim the majority of my adolescence, but wishes don't always come true, do they?"

Her tone was dripping with a kind of bitter venom foreign to even Martha, the same woman who had unsuccessfully nursed her through a variety of the most traumatic episodes of her early youth—It was frightening. Alas, what could one suspect or assume to be the appropriate response from a woman so significantly traumatized by those meant to protect her? It was if seven years of pent up, locked down emotions had finally become incapable of sustaining, its essence leaking like a poisonous ivy drip through the caverns of Spencer's heart.

"Spencer—"

"Do not," She interjected sharply, her fierce, yet undeniably broken voice slicing through the acrid silence, "Do not defend these people and do not tell me lies. I've been playing their silly game for seven years. Seven long _fucking_ years,"

The monotonous shifting of Martha's handcrafted Italian grandfather clock had never sounded so deafening.

"It ends now."

_**asteriasterickasterickasterickasterickasterick**_

"Just call her,"

"I can't just 'call her'," Ashley sighed, skimming the cardboard rim of her empty Chai mindlessly. To call would be to resort to a cliché, and if there was one thing she and Spencer both understood, it was the repulsiveness of clichés.

Kate, on the other hand, was on the edge of being over the star-crossed love affair, though, on a clever tip from Kevin, she maintained one ear on the inside, not willing herself to let Spencer stray too far from her sight. To be honest, Kate was experiencing an emotion in conjunction with her best friend she had yet to experience before. It wasn't jealousy—No, that would be too simple, too incredibly easy, and in Weston 'easy' resided in that circle of the most inadequate vocabulary.

"You could always show up at her door naked."

Ashley laughed softly, her face an image of careful thought, before contorting replicate her signature sexy grin, "She doesn't deserve the pleasure."

_**asterickasterickasterickasterickasterickasterickasterick**_

_Spencer was thirteen and gay. It wasn't a secret—She'd always known. It was evident in the two-hundred and twenty days of third grade, when Mrs. Appleton would bend over ever so slowly, in search of a wayward stick of chalk, crystal clear during the last few moments of sixth grade recess, when Victoria Stern would, to Spencer's curious delight, redress herself following the class dip in the school's Olympic sized swimming pool. Spencer was so fucking gay and she hated it—Just the thought of her condition killed her—That's what it was, after all, a condition, a sickness, a sort of self-decaying plague. Or at least that's what Paula referred to it as. Spencer was sick—Almost like having the flu, but worse. And as such, in hopes of remedying the situation in the only way a woman like Paula knew how, she sent her away—far enough where she could forget her, but with enough credentials to convince herself she was providing her daughter with best and most efficient of care—And that's where it all began. First, it was her nurse, Ruthie, then her therapist, Dana. Weeks later, it would be Sarah Rogers, Geraldine Saviteer, Hilary Rossi—She fucked them, one after the other_

_And every time she fucked them, it was like she was fucking her—almost as if she was fucking Paula—Fucking her mother for every single wrong she was inflicting upon her: for the hours of shock therapy and corrective thinking workshops, for the days upon weeks upon months she spent sullen and incarcerated, with only white walls to serenade her sleepless nights. She was miserable—She was changed. The world looked so different now—So, unbelievably pale and uninviting, yet she was still determined to find some way to live._

_**asterickasterickasterickasterickasterickasterickasterick**_

"So, how many of your daddy's pretty pennies did you pay her to sleep with you?"

Madison was outside and tanning, the only bits of her figure shielded from Aiden's line of sight masked by a slither of white bikini, a direct contrast to the large black glasses perched stoically on the bridge of her nose.

"Fuck you," Aiden shot back, his childlike accuse for viciousness not lost on the girl, as he helped himself to his fourth Mojito. The young lady in question, who, for the record, had cost him a steep $800 was navigating her way through and out of the Carlin mansion, her company having been required only for a pathetic forty-five minutes.

"Besides," Aiden continued, "I don't see you dragging in any beautiful women,"

"Because I haven't been," Madison countered snidely, not at all pissed with his observation, but instead his general existence in her atmosphere.

"Let me guess," He spat, "You're waiting for 'the one'"

Madison didn't bother to smirk; she reserved even those for special occasions.

"Please," She began, inwardly reprimanding his naivete, "I'm waiting for Ashley."

_**asterickasterickasterickasterick**_

**dammmmn, it's been awhile. i just started my first year at college so, as such, i haven't been able to write at all. i'm home for the weekend and thought i'd stay up at whip up a short chapter for whoever is still looking to read this fic. again, so sorry it's been awhile. expect a good chuck of updates around thanksgiving and again around christmas. for everyone who asked me to PMS- thanks for all**** the encouragemen**


	18. Cardboard and Vodka

_Pawn to A-4. Check._

The games we play are destructive.

_Queen to SD-7._

Dangerous.

_Pawn to A-5. Check._

And Devastating.

Spencer needed a trip—A high—Something, anything, to uplift her—to transcend mind, body, and soul. Her pills, her little golden capsules of somnambulistic white, had lost there panacean luster and it was, with this fact in mind, she found herself combing through Kate's kitchen cabinets, tearing through her cedar paneled drawers, and digging through once sound jars of sugar, flour, and corn starch in search of the miniature baggie of white bliss she knew lay tucked away there.

"Yes…" She muttered, unconsciously letting loose a sigh of relief, before excavating from the depths of a flour tumbler, one of the many dimes of cocaine Kate kept stashed through out her loft. It had always been a secret, her secret—one that, unbeknownst to Kate, Spencer was more than privy too. They all dealt differently, a fact she understood more than most and for now it was just about getting by—Just about surviving today to bitch about tomorrow in the only ways they knew how.

"Spence,"

_Fuck._

In her cannibalistic ravishing of Kate's kitchen area, Spencer had overlooked the high probability of someone besides Kate, who was attending her bi-weekly meditating class, being home—namingly, her most recent permanent visitor.

"Spencer, what are you doing?" Ashley asked, the nervous tones of her voice juxtaposing her relaxed nature. She could see the baggie clear as day, pinched precariously between the space separating Spencer's forefinger from her thumb.

"Fuck off, Ashley," She spat distractedly, producing a syringe from behind a small tower of tomato paste.

This was too much, too fast, and for now, she couldn't deal with the trivial, with the only seemingly good in her life, because to do so would be to accept it, and acceptance only properly manifested itself as pain—She needed this.

Ashley stood there, seven feet away and so numb, this new lack of feeling trickling its way throughout her extremities—rendering her helpless in the mouth of the foyer leading to Kate's kitchen. Still, she had her voice, "Don't."

Her plea echoed off the empty walls and marble floors—Not desperate, destroyed, or hurt—But, instead, honest—An honesty so startling it almost made Spencer break.

"Please, don't."

Perhaps, it was the quality of her voice in that moment, the way her tone straddled that delicate, fibrous, line between pity and an emotion closely reminiscent of disgust, but Spencer snapped.

"Ms.—Fucking—Davies," She sneered, her once bright but now dark red orbs trained devilishly on Ashley's slowly approaching form, "Ashley, if I may?" She continued sardonically, her sarcasm thickening with every passing syllable as she too slowly approached the other girl, "Please, don't let me be the one to keep you from whatever, or whomever, else you could possibly be doing."

"Spence—"

"_Do not call me that,_"

It was raw.

"Spencer, please—"

"Fuck you, Ashley," She muttered, sidestepping the girl in transit to the dining room table.

She needed to score—Now. Approaching Paula, approaching the diseased and otherwise infested carcass otherwise known as her family was dependent upon this, because for the first time Spencer was audibly able to admit she wasn't strong enough. Seven years had delivered her to this unfortunate point and she had no time to dwell in the sad reality.

The scene that unfolded next was one uncharacteristic of even her—As Spencer sloppily collapsed into one of the eight plush red Victorian chairs, subconsciously rolling up the faded navy sleeve of her Wellesley sweatshirt, she gripped the for now empty syringe between her perfectly white teeth, clumsily peeling open the baggie of her pure white, domestic, salvation.

Ashley was still there, still six, or maybe seven, feet away and totally numb. But as she watched the beginnings of Spencer's self-mutilation, she suddenly began to feel—She began to experience emotion in a way foreign to her before—Spencer didn't provide her with reason—She _was _ her reason. And suddenly, without ample warning or word, perhaps because she understood her in ways too intimate for words, she was moving, feeling the product of twenty years pent up lonely emotion having found its counterpoint in another.

What happened next was entirely unexpected.

"I need you."

It was Ashley that spoke, her trembling, nearly broken, but so resilient voice that cut through their thick with tension silence.

"I really need you, and if you do this, I can't have you," She was getting closer now as six, or maybe seven feet, shrunk to five, or maybe four, "Because I can't share you, Spencer," Her gaze wasn't trained on the silver dearth of the needle whose precarious mouth so sheepishly pierced but a silver of Spencer's arm, but instead on the other girls eyes, on her dark, red, angry, swollen eyes whose cavernous depths now welled with water, "And if I had to, that wouldn't be fair. That would be so completely and utterly inequitable," She was on her knees now, the valley separating her and Spencer now mere eighths of a centimeter, "Because you have me,"

The floodgates opened—Spencer found her salvation.

_**asterickasterickasterickasterickasterickasterickasterick**_

_Cardboard and Vodka…_

Those are the smells and sensations that bombarded Spencer's form when she awoke next. Perhaps, it was pure exhaustion, unwarranted emotional overload, or an intense fear of the future, either one of those may have contributed to her loss of consciousness when Ashley finally touched her, when they had finally made love (under any other set of circumstances, Spencer might have said 'fuck' but, if you had been there, it would be more than apparent that this surpassed even the vulgar—that it transcended something far more spiritual.) It was late afternoon now, the sun dissipating itself into night, when Spencer finally awoke, not willing herself to untangle her and Ashley's knotted limbs. The room was littered—no—trashed—with piles upon pounds of cardboard boxes, the bureau adjacent to Ashley's bed displaying a large, half empty bottle of Grey Goose, the seemingly empty shot glasses next to it, reeking of the sharp scented liquid.

The sunset, streaming in and through the open patio screen door, struck the other girl at the oddest of angles and, for perhaps the millionth time that month, Spencer took a moment in bask in her perfection—In the pleasant enigma that she was.

The words slipped through and past her lips before she could even register their weight.

"I could love you…"

"What?"

It was Ashley, and she was awake.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing," Spencer breathed heavily. She hadn't known she was awake and for now, she was too tired to argue—She didn't want to fight, that would come later at a colonial estate twenty minutes away.

Easy silence permeated.

"I could love you too."


End file.
